PO6A\S 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY    OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Received  ^^T^^  <      .  188  6  , 

Accessions  No.2-**^-  72-      Shelf  No.  £^?*?SL 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


ALICE   AND    PHOEBE   GARY 


HOUSEHOLD  EDITION 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 


1884 


Copyright,  1865, 
Bv  ALICE  GARY. 

Copyright,  1867,  1873,  and  1876, 
BY  KURD  AND  HOUGHTON. 

Copyright,  1882, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  M1FFL1N  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE  ! 

BLBCTROTYPED    AND    PRINTED    BY 
H-    O-    HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


THE  poems  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary  were  published  in  a  joint 
volume  during  the  life-time  of  the  sisters  ;  the  first  venture  was 
made  in  this  way  in  1849,  and  the  large  public  interested  in  their 
songs  has  ever  since  instinctively  connected  writers,  who,  bound  to- 
gether by  peculiar  ties,  were  as  akin  and  divergent  in  their  poetry 
as  they  were  in  their  natures.  Subsequently  to  the  first  venture, 
they  issued  their  volumes  of  poetry  separately,  but  after  their 
death,  the  editor  of  their  writings,  Mrs.  Mary  Clemmer,  again  asso- 
ciated them.  Her  Memorial  contained  their  later  poems  ;  this  vol- 
ume was  followed  by  the  "  Last  Poems  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary," 
and  finally  by  "  Ballads  for  Little  Folk,"  again  a  joint  collection. 

The  poems,  scattered  thus  through  several  volumes,  are  now 
brought  together  into  a  single  volume,  each  writer  having  her  own 
portion.  To  facilitate  comparison  and  reference,  it  has  been 
thought  desirable  to  classify  the  poems  upon  a  common  plan  which 
agrees  substantially  with  that  adopted  by  Mrs.  Clemmer. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


ALICE   GARY'S    POEMS. 


Page 

BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 

The  Young  Soldier 3 

Ruth  and  I 4 

Hagen  Walder 5 

;  Our  School-master 5 

The  Gray  Swan 6 

The  Washerwoman 7 

Growing  Rich 8 

Sandy  Macleod 8 

The  Picture-book 9 

A  Walk  through  the  Snow     .    .  9 

The  Water-bearer 10 

The  Best  Judgment 12 

Hugh  Thorn  dyke 13 

Faithless 13 

My  Faded  Shawl  .......  14 

Old  Chums 16 

The  Shoemaker 17 

To  the  Wind 18 

Little  Cyrus 18 

Fifteen  and  Fifty 20 

Jenny  Dunleath 22 

Tricksey's  Ring 24 

Crazy  Christopher 26 

The  Ferry  of  Gallaway  ....  28 

Revolutionary  Story 28 

The  Daughter 30 

The  Might  of  Love 31 

"  The  Grace  Wife  of  Keith  "  .     .  31 

Johnny  Right 33 

The  Settler's  Christmas  Eve  .     .  34 

The  Old  Story 36 

Balder's  Wife 37 

At  Rehearsal 37 

The  Fisherman's  Wife  ....  38 

Maid  and  Man 40 

The  Double  Skein 40 

Selfish  Sorrow 41 

The  Edge  of  Doom 43 

The  Chopper's  Child     ....  43 

The  Dead  House 45 


Page 

One  Moment 47 

The  Flax  Beater 48 

Cottage  and  Hall 49 

The  Mines  of  Avondale     ...  50 

The  Victory  of  Perry     ....  52 

The  Window  just  over  the  Street  53 

A  Fable  of  Cloud-land  ....  54 

Barbara  at  the  Window      .     .     .  55 

Barbara  in  the  Meadow .     \     .     .  56 

Ballad  of  Uncle  Joe 56 

The  Farmer's  Daughter      ...  58 
POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 

On  seeing  a  Drowning  Moth  .     .  59 

Good  and  Evil 59 

Stroller's  Song 60 

A  Lesson 60 

"  He  spoils  his  house  and  throws 

his  pains  away  "      ....  60 

On  seeing  a  Wild  Bird  ....  60 

Rich,  though  Poor 6 1 

"  Still      from     the    unsatisfying 

quest" 6 1 

"  The  glance  that  doth  thy  neigh- 
bor doubt " 61 

Sixteen 61 

Prayer  for  Light 62 

The  Uncut  Leaf 62 

The  Might  of  Truth 63 

Two  Travelers 64 

The  Blind  Traveler 64 

My  Good  Angel 64 

Care 65 

More  Life 65 

Contradictory 65 

This  is  All 66 

In  Vain 66 

Best,  to  the  Best  ......  66 

Thorns 67 

Old  Adam 67 

Sometimes 67 

"  Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful "  68 


IV 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Sea-side  Cave 68 

The  Measure  of  Time  ....  68 

Idle  Fears 69 

*'  Do  not  look  for  wrong  and 

evil " 69 

"  Our  unwise  purposes  are  wisely 

crossed" 69 

Hints 69 

To  a  Stagnant  River  ....  70 
"  Apart  from  the  woes  that  are 

dead  and  gone  "  ....  70 

Counsel 70 

Latent  Life -.  .  .  71 

How  and  Where 71 

The  Felled  Tree 71 

A  Dream 72 

Work 72 

Comfort 73 

Faith  and  Works 73 

The  Rustic  Painter 73 

One  of  Many 74 

The  Shadow 74 

The  Unwise  Choice 75 

Providence 75 

The  Living  Present 76 

The  Weaver's  Dream  ....  76 

Not  Now 77 

Crags 77 

Man 77 

To  Solitude 78 

The  Law  of  Liberty 78 

My  Creed 78 

Open  Secrets 79 

The  Saddest  Sight 79 

»  The  Bridal  Hour 80 

*  Idle 80 

God  is  Love 80 

Life's  Mysteries 81 

"  We  are  the  mariners,  and  God 

the  sea " 82 

"  The  best  man  should  never  pass 

by" -.  .  .  .  82 

Pledges 82 

Proverbs  in  Rhyme 83 

Fame 83 

Genius 83 

In  Bonds 84 

Nobility 84 

To  the 'Muse 85 

"  Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low  "  85 

No  Ring 85 

Text  and  Moral 86 

To  my  Friend 86 

One  of  Many 87 

Light 87 

Trust 88 

Life  ,  88 


Page 

Plea  for  Charity 89 

Second  Sight 90 

Life's  Roses 92 

Secret  Writing 92 

Dreams 03 

My  Poet 94 

Written   on  the  Fourth  of  July, 

1864 94 

Abraham  Lincoln 95 

Saved 95 

Spent  and  misspent 96 

Last  and  Best 96 

POEMS  OK  NATURE  AND  HOME. 

If  and  If 98 

An  Order  for  a  Picture  ....     99' 

The  Summer  Storm 100 

The  Special  Darling 101 

A  Dream  of  Home 102 

Evening  Pastimes 102 

Faded  Leaves 103 

The  Light  of  Days  gone  by    .     .103 

A  Sea  Song 104 

Sermons  in  Stones 104 

My  Picture 104 

Morning  in  the  Mountains       .     .  105 

The  Thistle  Flower 106 

My  Darlings     ."" 106 

The  Field  Sweet-brier   ....  107 
The  Little  House  on  the  Hill      .  108 

The  Old  House 108 

The  Blackbird 109 

Cradle  Song 109 

Going  to  Court 109 

On  the  Sea 1 10 

A  Fragment no 

Shadows in 

April in 

Poppies 112 

A  Sea  Song 113 

Winter  and  Summer 113 

Autumn 114 

Damaris 114 

A  Lesson 115 

Katrina  on  the  Porch     .     .     .     .116 

The  West  Country 116 

The  Old  Homestead 117 

Contradiction 117 

My  Dream  of  Dreams    .     .     .     .118 

In  the  Dark 119 

An  Invalid's  Plea 119 

POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

The  Bridal  Veil 121 

Pitiless  Fate 121 

The  Lover's  Interdict     .     .     .     .122 

Snowed  Under 123 

An  Emblem 124 

Queen  of  Roses 124 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Page 

Now  and  Then 125 

The  Lady  to  the  Lover  .     .     .     .125 
Love's  Secret  Springs    .     .     .     .126 

At  Sea 126 

A  Confession 127 

Easter  Bridal  Song 127 

Prodigal's  Plea 128 

The  Seal  Fisher's  Wife  .    .    .    .128 

Carmia 128 

Epithalamium 129 

Jennie 129 

Miriam 130 

"  O  winds  ye  are  too  rough,  too 

rough  " 130 

POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND  CONSOLATION. 

Mourn  not 131 

Consolation 131 

Under  the  Shadow 131 

Lost  Lilies 132 

A  Wonder 133 

Most  Beloved 133 

My  Darlings 133 

In  Despair 133 

Wait 134 

The  Other  Side 134 

A  Wintry  Waste 135 

The  Shadow 136 

How  Peace  came 136 

Be  still 136 

Vanished 137 

Safe 137 

Waiting 138 

Intimations 138 

The  Great  Question 138 

"What     comfort,     when     with 

clouds  of  woe  " 138 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 

Thanksgiving    . 139 

"  Hope  in  our  hearts  doth  only 

stay" 144 

Morning 144 

One  Dust 144 

Signs  of  Grace 145 

January 146 

Alone 147 

A  Prayer 147 

Counsel    . 147 

Supplication      .......  148 

Putting  off  the  Armor    ....  148 

Forgiveness 148 

The  Golden  Mean 149 

The  Fire  by  the  Sea 149 

The  Sure  Witness 150 

A  Penitent's  Plea 150 

Love  is  Life 151 

"Thy  works,  O  Lord,  interpret 

Thee" .  151 


Page 

"  Our  God  is  love,  and  that  which 
we  miscall"  ......  151 

Time 151 

Supplication 151 

Whither 152 

Sure  Anchor 152 

Remember 152 

Adelied 153 

Sunday  Morning 153 

In  the  Dark 153 

Parting  Song 154 

The  Heaven  that 's  here     .    .     .154 
"  Among  the  pitfalls  in  our  way  "  154 

The  Stream  of  Life 154 

Dead  and  Alive 155 

Invocation 155 

Life  of  Life       155 

Mercies 156 

Pleasure  and  Pain 156 

Mysteries 156 

Lyric 156 

Trust 157 

All  in  All 157 

The  Pure  in  Heart 157 

Unsatisfied 158 

Occasional 158 

Light  and  Darkness 1 58 

Substance 159 

Life's  Mystery 159 

For  Self-help 159 

Dying  Hymn 160 

Extremities 161 

Here  and  There 161 

The  Dawn  of  Peace 161 

"  Why  should  our  spirits  be  op- 

prest?" 161 

POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 
The  Little  Blacksmith    ....  162 

Little  Children 162 

A  Christmas  Story 162 

November  " 164 

Make-believe 165 

A  Nut  hard  to  crack      ....  167 

Hide  and  Seek 167 

Three  Bugs 168 

Waiting  for   Something  to  turn 

up 169 

Suppose 170 

A  Good  Rule 170 

To  Mother  Fairie 171 

Barbara  Blue 172 

Take  Care 172 

The  Grateful  Swan 173 

A  Short  Sermon 174 

Story  of  a  Blackbird 175 

Fairy-folk 175 

Buried  Gold 176 


VI 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Page 

Recipe  for  an  Appetite  ....  177 
The  Pig  and  the  Hen     ....  177 

Spider  and  Fly 178 

A  Lesson  of  Mercy 178 

The  Flower  Spider 179 

Dan  and  Dimple  and  how  they 

quarreled 179 

To  a  Honey-bee 179 


Page 

At  the  Tavern 180 

What  a  Bird  taught 180 

Old  Maxims 181 

Peter  Grey 181 

A  Sermon  for  Young  Folks    .     .  182 

Telling  Fortunes 182 

The  Wise  Fairy 183 

A  Child's  Wisdom 184 


PHCEBE   GARY'S    POEMS. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 

Dovecote  Mill 189 

The  Homestead 189 

The  Gardener's  Home    .     .     .  190 

The  Mill '.     .     .  191 

Sugar-making 191 

The  Playmates 192 

The  School    .     .     .     .   . .     .     .193 

Youth  and  Maiden     .     .     .     .194 

The  Country  Grave-yard     .     .  195 

Wooing 196 

Plighted 197 

Wedded 198 

The  Baby 199 

The  Father 200 

The  Wife 202 

A  Ballad  of  Lauderdale      .     .     .  203 

The  Three  Wrens 205 

Dorothy's  Dower  ......  208 

Black  Ranald 208 

The  Leak  in  the  Dike  .  .  .  .210 
The  Landlord  of  the  Blue  Hen  .  212 

The  King's  Jewel 213 

Edgar's  Wife 214 

The  Fickle  Day 214 

The  Maid  of  Kirconnell  .  .  .215 
Saint  Macarius  of  the  Desert  .  .  215 
Fair  Eleanor  .  .  .  ."  .  .  .217 

Breaking  the  Roads 217 

The  Christmas  Sheaf    .     .     .     .219 

Little  Gottlieb 220 

A  Monkish  Legend 221 

Arthur's  Wife 222 

Grade 223 

Poor  Margaret 224 

Lady  Marjory 224 

The  Old  Man's  Darling      .     .     .227 

A  Tent  Scene 227 

The  Lady  Jaqueline 228 

The  Wife's  Christmas    ....  228 

Coming  round 229 

The  Lamp  on  the  Prairie   .     .     .  230 
POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 
A  Weary  Heart 232 


Coming  Home 232 

Hidden  Sorrow 233 

A  Woman's  Conclusions    .     .     .  233 

Answered 234 

Disenchanted 234 

Alas  ! 234 

Mother  and  Son 235 

Theodora 235 

Up  and  down 236 

Beyond 238 

Favored 238 

Women 238 

The  only  Ornament 238 

Equality 239 

Ebb  Tide 239 

Happy  Women 239 

Loss  and  Gain  .......  239 

A  Prayer 240 

Memorial 240 

The  Harmless  Luxury    .     .     .     .241 

Tried  and  True 241 

Peace 242 


Sunset 
Apology  .     . 
The  Shadow 


242 
242 
243 
243 
243 


Morning  and  Afternoon 
Living  by  Faith     .... 

My  Lady 244 

Passing  Feet 245 

My  Riches 245 

Figs  of  Thistles 245 

Impatience 246 

Thou  and  1 246 

Nobody's  Child 247 

POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 

An  April  Welcome 248 

My  Neighbor's  House    ....  248 
The  Fortune  in  the  Daisy  .     .     .  249 

A  Picture 249 

Faith 249 

To  an  Elf  on  a  Buttercup  .     .     .  250 

Providence 250 

Old  Pictures 251 

The  Playmates 252 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Vll 


Page 
"  The  Barefoot  Boy  "     ....  252 

Winter  Flowers 253 

March  Crocuses 253 

Homesick 253 

"  Field  Preaching" 254 

Gathering  Blackberries  ....  255 

Our  Homestead 256 

Spring  after  the  War      .     .     .     .257 

The  Book  of  Nature 257 

Sugar-making 258 

Spring  Flowers 259 

POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 
Amy's  Love  Letter     .     .     .     .     .  260 

Do  you  blame  her  ? 260 

Song 261 

Somebody's  Lover 261 

On  the  River 262 

Inconstancy 263 

Love  cannot  die 263 

Helpless 263 

My  Helper 264 

Faithful 264 

The  Last  Act 265 

True  Love 266 

Complaint 266 

Doves'  Eyes 266 

The  Hunter's  Wife 267 

Lovers  and  Sweethearts      .     .     .  267 

The  Rose 268 

Archie 268 

A  Day  Dream 269 

The  Prize 269 

A  Woman's  Answer  .     .  , .     .     .  269 

In  Absence 270 

Enchantment 270 

Wooed  and  Won 270 

Love's  Recompense 271 

Jealousy 271 

Song 271 

I  cannot  tell 272 

Dead  Love 272 

My  Friend 273 

Dreams  and  Realities     ....  276 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 

Nearer  Home 278 

Many  Mansions 278 

The  Spiritual  Body 280 

A  Good  Day 280 

Hymn       281 

Drawing  Water 281 

Too  Late 281 

Retrospect 282 

Human  and  Divine 282 

Over-payment 283 

Vain  Repentance 283 

In  Extremity 283 

Peccavi 284 


Page 

Christmas 284 

Compensation 285 

Reconciled 286 

Thou  knowest 287 

Christmas 287 

Prodigals       288 

St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  .  .  .  289 
The  Widow's  Thanksgiving  .  .  289 
Via  Crucis,  Via  Lucis  ....  290 

Hymn 291 

Of  one  Flesh 291 

Teach  us  to  wait 291 

In  His  Arms 292 

"  The  heart  is  not  satisfied  "  .     .  292 

Unbelief 292 

The  Vision  on  the  Mount  .     .     .  293 

A  Canticle 293 

The  Cry  of  the  Heart  and  Flesh    294 

Our  Pattern 294 

The  Earthly  House 295 

Ye  did  it  unto  Me 296 

The  Sinner  at  the  Cross      .     .     .  296 

The  Heir 297 

Realities 297 

Hymn        298 

Wounded 298 

A  Cry  of  the  Heart 298 

POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND  CONSOLATION. 


Earth  to  Earth 


300 


The  Unhonored 300 

Jennie 301 

Cowper's  Consolation    .     .     .     .301 

Twice  smitten 302 

Border-land       30$ 

The  Last  Bed 303 

Light 303 

Waiting  the  Change 304 

PERSONAL  POEMS. 

Ready 305 

Dickens 305 

Thaddeus  Stevens 306 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  .  .  .  306 
The  Hero  of  Fort  Wagner  .  .  307 
Garibaldi  in  Piedmont  .  .  .  .307 

John  Brown 309 

Otway 309 

Our  Good  President       ....  309 

POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

To  the  Children 311 

Griselda  Goose 311 

The  Robin's  Nest 316 

Rain  and  Sunshine 317 

Baby's  Ring 318 

Don't  give  up 318 

The  Good  Little  Sister  .     .     .     .318 

Now 319 

The  Chicken's  Mistake  ....  320 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Page 

Effie's  Reasons 320 

Feathers 321 

The  Prairie  on  Fire 322 

Dappledun 322 

Suppose 323 

A  Legend  of  the  Northland    .     .  323 

Easy  Lessons 324 

Obedience 325 

The  Crow's  Children     ....  325 


Page 

Hives  and  Homes 326 

Nora's  Charm 326 

They  c1  id  n't  think 328 

Ajax 328 

"  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  "...  329 
What  the  Frogs  sing      ....  329 

The  Hunchback 330 

The  Envious  Wren 331 

The  Happy  Little  Wife .     .     .    .331 


ALICE  GARY'S  POEMS. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

APOLOGY. 

{Prefacing  the  volume  of  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and  ffymtts  published  ifl  1865.] 

O  EVER  true  and  comfortable  mate, 

For  whom  my  love  outwore  the  fleeting  red 
Of  my  young  cheeks,  nor  did  one  jot  abate, 

I  pray  thee  now,  as  by  a  dying  bed, 
Wait  yet  a  little  longer  !     Hear  me  tell 

How  much  my  will  transcends  my  feeble  powers : 

As  one  with  blind  eyes  feeling  out  in  flowers 
Their  tender  hues,  or,  with  no  skill  to  spell 

His  poor,  poor  name,  but  only  makes  his  mark, 

And  guesses  at  the  sunshine  in  the  dark, 
So  I  have  been.     A  sense  of  things  divine 

Lying  broad  above  the  little  things  I  knew, 
The  while  I  made  my  poems  for  a  sign 

Of  the  great  melodies  I  felt  were  true. 
Pray  thee  accept  my  sad  apology, 

Sweet  master,  mending,  as  we  go  along, 

My  homely  fortunes  with  a  thread  of  song, 
That  all  my  years  harmoniously  may  run  ; 

Less  by  the  tasks  accomplished  judging  me, 
Than  by  the  better  things  I  would  have  done. 

I  would  not  lose  thy  gracious  company 
Out  of  my  house  and  heart  for  all  the  good 
Besides,  that  ever  comes  to  womanhood,  — 

And  this  is  much  :  I  know  what  I  resign, 

But  at  that  great  price  I  would  have  thee  mine. 


BALLADS 


AND 


NARRATIVE    POEMS. 


THE  YOUNG  SOLDIER. 

INTO  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

With  hair  so  long  and  so  bright, 

Crying,  "  Mother  !  Johnny  has  'listed  ! 
He  has  'listed  into  the  fight !  " 

"Don't  talk  so  wild,  little  Lettice  !  " 
And    she     smoothed     her    darling's 

brow. 
"  'T  is  true  !   you  '11  see  —  as  true  can 

be  — 
He  told  me  so  just  now  !  " 

"  Ah,  that 's  a  likely  story  ! 

Why,  darling,  don't  you  see, 
If  Johnny  had  'listed>into  the  war 

He  would  tell  your  father  and  me  !  " 

"  But  he  is  going  to  go,  mother, 
Whether  it 's  right  or  wrong  ; 

He  is  thinking  of  it  all  the  while, 
And  he  won't  be  with  us  long." 

"  Our    Johnny    going    to    go    to    the 

war  !  " 

"  Aye,  aye,  and  the  time  is  near  ; 
He  said,  when  the  corn  was  once  in  the 

ground, 
We  could  n't  keep  him  here  !  " 

"  Hush,  child  !  your  brother  Johnny 
Meant  to  give  you  a  fright." 

"  Mother,  he  '11  go,  —  I  tell  you  I  know 
He  's  'listed  into  the  fight ! 

"  Plucking   a   rose   from   the  bush,  he 
said, 

Before  its  leaves  were  black 
He  'd  have  a  soldier's  cap  on  his  head, 

And  a  knapsack  on  his  back !  " 

"  A  dream  !  a  dream  !  little  Lettice, 
A  wild  dream  of  the  night ; 


Go  find  and  fetch  your  brother  in, 
And  he  will  set  us  right." 

So  out  of  the  house  ran  Lettice, 

Calling  near  and  far,  — 
"  Johnny,  tell  me,  and  tell  me  true, 

Are  you  going  to  go  to  the  war  ? " 

At  last  she  came  and  found  him 

In  the  dusty  cattle-close, 
Whistling  Hail  Columbia, 

And  beating  time  with  his  rose. 

The  rose  he  broke  from  the  bush,  when 
he  said, 

Before  its  leaves  were  black 
He  'd  have  a  soldier's  cap  on  his  head, 

And  a  knapsack  on  his  back. 

Then  all  in  gay  mock-anger, 
He  plucked  her  by  the  sleeve, 

Saying,  "Dear  little,  sweet  little  rebel, 
I  am  going,  by  your  leave  !  " 

"  O  Johnny  !  Johnny  !  "  low  he  stooped, 
And  kissed  her  wet  cheeks  dry, 

And  took  her  golden  head  in  his  hands, 
And  told  her  he  would  not  die. 

"  But,  Letty,  if  anything  happens  — 
There  won't !  "  and  "he  spoke    more 

low  — 
"  But  if  anything  should,  you  must  be 

twice  as  good 
As  you  are,  to  mother,  you  know  ! 

"  Not  but  that  you  are  good,  Letty, 

As  good  as  you  can  be  ; 
But  then  you  know  it  might  be  so, 

You  'd  have  to  be  good  for  me  !  " 

So  straight  to  the  house  they  went,  his 

cheeks 
Flushing  under  his  brim  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


And  his  two  broad-shouldered  oxen 
Turned  their  great  eyes  after  him. 

That  night  in  the  good  old  farmstead 

Was  many  a  sob  of  pain ; 
"  O  Johnny,  stay  !  if  you  go  away, 

It  will  never  be  home  again  !  " 

But  Time  its  still  sure  comfort  lent, 

Crawling,  crawling  past, 
And  Johnny's  gallant  regiment 

Was  going  to  march  at  last. 

And  steadying  up  her  stricken  soul, 

The  mother  turned  about, 
Took    what    was    Johnny's    from    the 
drawer 

And  shook  the  rose-leaves  out ; 

And   brought  the   cap  she   had   lined 

with  silk, 

And  strapped  his  knapsack  on, 
And    her   heart,   though  it   bled,   was 

proud  as  she  said. 
"  You  would  hardly  know  our  John  !  " 

Another  year,  and  the  roses 

Were    bright   on   the    bush    by   the 

door ; 
And  into  the  house  ran  Lattice, 

Her  pale  cheeks  glad  once  more. 

"  O  mother  !  news  has  come  to-day  ! 

'T  is  flying  all  about ; 
Our  John's  regiment,  they  say, 

Is  all  to  be  mustered  out ! 

"  O  mother,  you  must  buy  me  a  dress, 
And  ribbons  of  blue  and  buff  ! 

Oh  what  shall  we  say  to  make  the  day 
Merry  and  mad  enough  ! 

"  The  brightest  day  that  ever  yet 
The  sweet  sun  looked  upon, 

When  we  shall  be  dressed  in  our  very 

best, 
To  welcome  home  our  John  !  " 

So  up  and  down  ran  Lettice, 

And  all  the  farmstead  rung 
With  where  he  would  set  his  bayonet, 

And  where  his  cap  would  be  hung  ! 

And  the  mother  put  away  her  look 

Of  weary,  waiting  gloom, 
And  a  feast  was  set  and  the  neighbors 
met 

To  welcome  Johnny  home. 


The  good  old  father  silent  stood, 
With  his  eager  face  at  the  pane, 

And  Lettice  was   out    at  the  door  to 

shout 
When  she  saw  him  in  the  lane. 

And  by  and  by,  a  soldier 

Came  o'er  the  grassy  hill ; 
It  was  not  he  they  looked  to  see, 

Arid  every  heart  stood  still. 

He  brought  them  Johnny's  knapsack, 
'T  was  all  that  he  could  do, 

And  the  cap  he  had  worn  begrimed  and 

torn, 
With  a  bullet-hole  straight  through  ! 


RUTH   AND   I. 

IT  was  not  day,  and  was  not  night ; 
The  eve  had  just  begun  to  light, 

Along  the  lovely  west, 
His  golden  candles,  one  by  one, 
And  girded  up  with  clouds,  the  sun 

Was  sunken  to  his  rest. 

Between  the  furrows,  brown  and  dry, 
We  walked  in  silence —  Ruth  and  I ; 

We  two  had  been,  since  morn 
Began  her  tender  tunes  to  beat 
Upon  the  May-leaves  young  and  sweet, 

Together,  planting  corn. 

Homeward  the  evening  cattle  went 
In  patient,  slow,  full-fed  content, 

Led  by  a  rough,  strong  steer, 
His  forehead  all  with  burs  thick  set 
His  horns  of  silver  tipt  with  jet, 

And  shapeless  shadow,  near. 

With  timid,  half-reluctant  grace, 
Like  lovers  in  some  favored  place, 

The  light  and  darkness  met, 
And  the  air  trembled,  near  and  far, 
With  many  a  little  tuneful  jar 

Of  milk-pans  being  set. 

We  heard  the  house-maids  at  their  cares, 
Pouring  their  hearts  out  unawares 

In  some  sad  poet's  ditty, 
And  heard  the  fluttering  echoes  round 
Reply  like  souls  all  softly  drowned 

In  heavenly  love  and  pity. 

All  sights,  all  sounds  in  earth  and  air 
Were  of  the  sweetest ;  everywhere 
Ear,  eye,  and  heart  were  fed  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


The  grass  with  one  small  burning  flower 
Blushed  bright,  as  if  the  elves  that  hour 
Their  coats  thereon  had  spread. 

One  moment,   where   we    crossed   the 

brook 
Two  little  sunburnt  hands  I  took,  — 

Why  did  I  let  them  go  ? 
I  've  been  since  then  in  many  a  land, 
Touched,  held,   kissed    many   a   fairer 

hand, 
But  none  that  thrilled  me  so. 

Why,  when  the  bliss   Heaven  for  us 

made 
Is  in  our  very  bosom  laid, 

Should  we  be  all  unmoved, 
And  walk,  as  now  do  Ruth  and  I, 
'Twixt  th'  world's  furrows,  brown  and 

dry, 
Unloving  and  unloved  ? 


HAGEN   WALDER. 

THE  day,  with  a  cold,  dead  color 

Was  rising  over  the  hill, 
When  little  Hagen  Walder 

Went  out  to  grind  in  th'  mill. 

All  vainly  the  light  in  zigzags 
Fell  through  the  frozen  leaves, 

And  like  a  broidery  of  gold 
Shone  on  his  ragged  sleeves. 

No  mother  had  he  to  brighten 
His  cheek  with  a  kiss,  and  say, 

"  'T  is  cold  for  my  little  Hagen 
To  grind  in  the  mill  to-day." 

And  that  was  why  the  north  winds 
Seemed  all  in  his  path  to  meet, 

And  why  the  stones  were  so  cruel 
And  sharp  beneath  his  feet. 

And  that  was  why  he  hid  his  face 

So  oft,  despite  his  will, 
Against  the  necks  of  the  oxen 

That  turned  the  wheel  of  th'  mill. 

And  that  was  why  the  tear-drops 

So  oft  did  fall  and  stand 
Upon  their  silken  coats  that  were 

As  white  as  a  lady's  hand. 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Looked  at  the  sea  and  th'  sky, 


And  wished  that  he  were  a  salmon, 
In  the  silver  waves  to  lie  ; 

And  wished  that  he  were  an  eagle, 
Away  through  th'  air  to  soar, 

Where  never  the  groaning  mill-wheel 
Might  vex  him  any  more  : 

And  wished  that  he  were  a  pirate, 
To  burn  some  cottage  down, 

And  warm  himself ;  or  that  he  were 
A  market-lad  in  the  town, 

With  bowls  of  bright  red  strawberries 

Shining  on  his  stall, 
And  that  some  gentle  maiden 

Would  come  and  buy  them  all  ! 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Passed,  as  the  story  says, 
Through  dreams,  as  through  a  golden 
gate, 

Into  realities. 

And  when  the  years  changed  places, 
Like  the  billows,  bright  and  still, 

In  th'  ocean,  Hagen  Walder 
Was  the  master  of  the  mill. 

And  all  his  bowls  of  strawberries 

Were  not  so  fine  a  show 
As  are  his  boys  and  girls  at  church 

Sitting  in  a  row  ! 


OUR    SCHOOL-MASTER. 

WE  used  to  think  it  was  so  queer 
To  see  him.  in  his  thin  gray  hair, 

Sticking  our  quills  behind  his  ear, 
And   straight  forgetting    they    were 
there. 

We  used  to  think  it  was  so  strange 
That   he   should   twist   such   hair  to 

curls, 
And   that   his   wrinkled   cheek   should 

change 
Its  color  like  a  bashful  girl's. 

Our  foolish  mirth  defied  all  rule, 
As  glances,  each  of  each,  we  stole, 

The  morning  that  he  wore  to  school 
A  rose-bud  in  his  button-hole. 

And  very  sagely  we  agreed 

That  such  a  dunce  was  never  known  — 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


Fifty!  and  trying  still  to  read 
Love-verse  with  a  tender  tone  ! 

No  joyous  smile  would  ever  stir 
Our  sober  looks,  we  often  said, 

If  we  were  but  a  School-master, 

And  had,  withal,  his  old  white  head. 

One  day  we  cut  his  knotty  staff 
Nearly  in  two,  .and  each  and  all 

Of  us  declared  that  we  should  laugh 
To  see  it  break  and  let  him  fall. 

Upon  his  old  pine  desk  we  drew 
His  picture —  pitiful  to  see, 

Wrinkled   and    bald  — half  false,  half 

true, 
And  wrote  beneath  it,  Twenty-three  ! 

Next  day  came  eight  o'clock  and  nine, 
But  he  came  not :  our  pulses  quick 

With  play,  we  said  it  would  be  fine 
If  the  old  School -master  were  sick. 

And  still  the  beech-trees  bear  the  scars 
Of  wounds  which   we   that   morning 

made, 
Cutting  their  silvery  bark  to  stars 

Whereon    to   count    the    games   we 
played. 

At  last,  as  tired  as  we  could  be, 
Upon  a  clay-bank,  strangely  still, 

We  sat  down  in  a  row  to  see 

His  worn-out  hat  come  up  the  hill. 

'T  was  hanging  up  at  home  —  a  quill 
Notched  down,  and  sticking   in   the 
band, 

And  leaned  against  his  arm-chair,  still 
His  staff  was  waiting  for  his  hand. 

Across  his  feet  his  threadbare  coat 
Was  lying,  stuffed  with  many  a  roll 

Of  "  copy-plates,"  and,  sad  to  note, 
A  dead  rose  in  the  button-hole. 

And  he  no  more  might  take  his  place 
Our  lessons  and  our  lives  to  plan  : 

Cold    Death  had    kissed  the   wrinkled 

face 
Of  that  most  gentle  gentleman. 

Ah  me,  what  bitter  tears  made  blind 
Our  young  eyes,  for  our  thoughtless 
sin, 

As  two  and  two  we  walked  behind 
The  long  black  coffin  he  was  in. 


And  all,  sad  women  now,  and  men 
With  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs,  can  see 

How  he  might  wear  a  rose-bud  then, 
And  read  love-verses  tenderly. 


THE   GRAY   SWAN. 

"  OH  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 

Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu, 

A-sailing  with  your  ship  ?" 

The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew,  — 

"  Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu  ?  " 

He  said,  with  trembling  lip,  — 
"  What  little  lad  ?  what  ship  ? " 

"  What  little  lad  !  as  if  there  could  be 

Another  such  an  one  as  he  ! 

What  little  lad,  do  you  say  ? 

Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 

The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  knee  I 
It  was  just  the  other  day 
The  Gray  Swan  sailed  away." 

"  The  other  day  ?"  the  sailor's  eyes 

Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise,  — 
'•  The  other  day  ?  the  Swan  ?  " 

His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,  here  in  the  cupboard  lies 
The  jacket  he  had  on." 
"  And  so  your  lad  is  gone  ?  " 

"  Gone   with   the   Swan"      "  And  did 

she  stand 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the 

sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir  ?  " 
"  Why,  to  be  sure  !  I  've  seen  from  the 

land,  , 

Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 

The  wild  sea  kissing  her,  — 

A  sight  to  remember,  sir."  - 

"  But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 
All  this  was  twenty  years  ago  ? 

I  stood  on  the  Grav  S?va?t's  deck, 
And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 
Taking  it  off,,  as  it  might  be,  so  ! 
The  kerchief  from  your  neck," 
"  Aye,  and  he  '11  bring  it  back !  " 

"And  did  the  little  lawless  lad 

That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you 

sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  Swan's  crew  ?  " 
"  Lawless  !  the  man  is  going  mad  ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had,  — 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew  ! 
What  would  you  have  him  do  ?  " 

u  And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word,  nor  made  you 

sign 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  " 
"  Hold  !  if  't  was  wrong,  the  wrong  is 

mine ; 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine, 

And     could    he    write    from    the 

grave  ? 

Tut,      man  1     what    would      you 
have  ?  " 

"  Gone   twenty  years,  —  a  long,   long 

cruise,  — 
'T  was  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse  ; 

But  if  the  lad  still  live, 
And  come   back  home,  think  you  you 

can 

Forgive  him  ? "  —  "  Miserable  man, 
You  're    mad  as   the    sea,  —  you 

rave,  — 
What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  " 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief.     She  was  wild. 

"  My  God  !  my  Father  !  is  it  true  ? 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu  ! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child  ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child  !  " 


THE   WASHERWOMAN. 

AT  the  north  end  of  our  village  stands, 
With  gable  black  and  high, 

A  weather-beaten  house,  —  I  've  stopt 
Often  as  I  went  by, 

To  see  the  strip  of  bleaching  grass 
Slipped  brightly  in  between 

The  long  straight  rows  of  hollyhocks, 
And  currant-bushes  green ; 

The  clumsy  bench  beside  the  door, 

And  oaken  washing-tub, 
Where  poor  old  Rachel  used  to  stand, 

And  rub,  and  rub,  and  rub  ! 

Her  blue-checked  apron  speckled  with 

The  suds,  so  snowy  white  ; 
From  morning  when  I  went  to  school 

Till  I  went  home  at  night, 


She  never  took  her  sunburnt  arms 

Out  of  the  steaming  tub  : 
We  used  to  say  't  was  weary  work 

Only  to  hear  her  rub. 

With  sleeves  stretched  straight  upon 
the  grass 

The  washed  shirts  used  to  lie  ; 
By  dozens  I  have  counted  them 

Some  days,  as  I  went  by. 

The  burly  blacksmith,  battering  at 

His  red-hot  iron  bands, 
Would  make  a  joke  of  wishing  that 

He  had  old  Rachel's  hands  ! 

And    when    the    sharp    and     ringing 
strokes 

Had  doubled  up  his  shoe, 
As  crooked  as  old  Rachel's  back, 

Pie  used  to  say  't  would  do. 

And  every  village  housewife,  with 
A  conscience  clear  and  light, 

Would  send  for  her  to  come  and  wash 
An  hour  or  two  at  night ! 

Her  hair  beneath  her  cotton  cap 
Grew  silver  white  and  thin  ; 

And  the  deep  furrows  in  her  face 
Ploughed  all  the  roses  in. 

Yet  patiently  she  kept  at  work,  — 
We  school-girls  used  to  say 

The  smile  about  her  sunken  mouth 
Would  quite  go  out  some  day. 

Nobody  ever  thought  the  spark 
That  in  her  sad  eyes  shone, 

Burned  outward  from  a  living  soul 
Immortal  as  their  own. 

And  though  a  tender  flush  sometimes 

Into  her  cheek  would  start, 
Nobody  dreamed  old  Rachel  had 

A  woman's  loving  heart ! 

At  last  she  left  her  heaps  of  clothes 

One  quiet  autumn  day, 
And    stript    from    off    her    sunburnt 
arms 

The  weary  suds  away  ; 

That  night  within  her  moonlit  door 

She  sat  alone,  —  her  chin 
Sunk   in   her   hand,  —  her   eyes   shut 
up, 

As  if  to  look  within. 


8 


THE  POEMS'  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Her  face  uplifted  to  the  star 
That  stood  so  sweet  and  low 

Against  old  crazy  Peter's  house  — 
(He  loved  her  long  ago  !) 

Her  heart  had  worn  her  body  to 
A  handful  of  poor  dust,  — 

Her  soul  was  gone  to  be  arrayed 
In  marriage-robes,  I  trust. 


GROWING  RICH. 

AND  why  are  you  pale,  my  Nora  ? 

And  why  do  you  sigh  and  fret  ? 
The  black  ewe  had  twin  lambs  to-day, 

And  we  shall  be  rich  folk  yet. 

Do  you  mind  the  clover-ridge,  Nora, 
That  slopes  to  the  crooked  stream  ? 

The    brown  cow  pastured    there   this 

week, 
And  her  milk  is  sweeet  as  cream. 

The  old  gray  mare  that  last  year  fell 

As  thin  as  any  ghost, 
Is  getting  a  new  white  coat,  and  looks 

As  young  as  her  colt,  almost. 

And  if  the  corn-land  should  do  well, 
And  so,  please  God,  it  may, 

I  '11  buy  the  white-faced  bull  a  bell, 
To  make  the  meadows  gay. 

I  know  we  are  growing  rich,  Johnny, 

And  that  is  why  I  fret, 
For  my  little  brother  Phil  is  down 

In  the  dismal  coal-pit  yet. 

And  when    the    sunshine    sets   in  th' 
corn, 

The  tassels  green  and  gay, 
It  will  not  touch  my  father's  eyes, 

That  are  going  blind,  they  say. 

But  if  I  were  not  sad  for  him, 

Nor  yet  for  little  Phil, 
Why,  darling  Molly's  hand,  last  year, 

Was  cut  off  in  the  mill. 

A-nd  so,    nor   mare   nor  brown  milch- 
cow, 

Nor  lambs  can  joy  impart, 
For  the  blind  old  man  and  th'  mill  and 

mine 
Are  all  upon  my  heart. 


SANDY  MACLEOD. 

WHEN  I  think  of  the  weary  nights  and 

days 

Of  poor,  hard-working  folk,  alwa}rs 
I  see,  with  his  head  on  his  bosom 

bowed, 
The  luckless  shoemaker,  Sandy  Mac- 

leod. 

Jeering  school-boys  used  to  say 

His   chimney   would  never    be    raked 

away 
By   the   moon,   and   you  by  a  jest  so 

rough 
May    know  that    his    cabin    was    low 

enough. 

Nothing  throve  with  him  ;  his  colt  and 

cow 

Got  their  living,  he  did  n't  know  how,  — 
Yokes  on  their  scraggy  necks  swinging 

about, 
Beating  and  bruising  them  year  in  and 

out. 

Out  at  the  elbow  he  used  to  go,  — 
Alas  for  him  that  he  did  not  know 
The  way  to  make  poverty  regal,  —  not 

he, 
If  such  way  under  the  sun  there  be. 

Sundays  all  day  in  the  door  he  sat, 

A  string  of  withered-up  crape  on   his 

hat, 

The  crown  half  fallen  against  his  head, 
And  half  sewed  in  with  a  shoemaker's 

thread. 

Sometimes  with  his  hard  and  toil-worn 

hand 
He   would   smooth   and  straighten  th' 

faded  band, 

Thinking  perhaps  of  a  little  mound 
Black  with  nettles  the  long  year  round. 

Blacksmith  and  carpenter,  both  were 

poor, 
And  there  was  the  school-master  who, 

to  be  sure, 
Had    seen    rough  weather,    but    after 

all 
When  they  met  Sandy  he  went  to  the 

wall. 

His  wife  was  a  lady,  they  used  to  say, 
Repenting  at  leisure  her  wedding-day, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


And  that  she  was  come  of  a  race  too 

proud 
E'er  to  have   mated  with  Sandy  Mac- 

leod! 

So  fretting  she  sat  from  December  to 

June, 
While  Sandy,  poor  soul,  to  a  funeral 

tune 
Would  beat  out  his  hard,  heavy  leather, 

until 
He  set  himself  up,  and  got  strength  to 

be  still. 

It  was  not  the  full  moon  that  made  it  so 

light 
In  the   poor  little  dwelling  of   Sandy 

one  night, 
It    was    not    the   candles    all    shining 

around,  — 
Ah,  no  !  't  was  the  light  of  the  day  he 

had  found. 


THE   PICTURE-BOOK. 

THE  black  walnut  logs  in  the  chimney 
Made  ruddy  the  house  with  their 
light, 

And  the  pool  in  the  hollow  was  covered 
With  ice  like  a  lid,  —  it  was  night; 

And  Roslyn  and  I  were  together,  — 
I  know  now  the  pleased  look  he  wore, 

And  the  shapes  of   the  shadows   that 

checkered 
The  hard  yellow  planks  of  the  floor  ; 

And  how,  when  the  wind  stirred  the 
candle, 

Affrighted  they  ran  from  its  gleams, 
And  crept  up  the  wall  to  the  ceiling 

Of  cedar,  and  hid  by  the  beams. 

There  were  books  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
dusty, 

And  shut,  and  I  see  in  my  mind, 
The  pink-colored  primer  of  pictures 

We  stood  on  our  tiptoes  to  find. 

We  opened  the  leaves  where  a  camel 
Was  seen  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

A -snuffing  for  water,  and  bearing 
A  great  bag  of  gold  on  his  back  ; 

And  talked  of  the  free  flowing  rivers 
A  tithe  of  his  burden  would  buy, 


And  said,  when  the  lips  of  the  sunshine 
Had  sucked  his  last  water-skin  dry  ; 

With  thick  breath  and  mouth  gaping 
open, 

And  red  eyes  a-strain  in  his  head, 
His  bones  would  push  out  as  if  buzzards 

Had  picked  him  before  he  was  dead  ! 

Then  turned  the  leaf  over,  and  finding 
A  palace  that  banners  made  gay, 

Forgot  the  bright  splendor  of  roses 
That  shone  through  our  windows  in 
May; 

And  sighed  for  the  great  beds  of  princes 
While  pillows  for  him  and  for  me 

Lay  soft  among  ripples  of  ruffles 
As  sweet  and  as  white  as  could  be. 

And  sighed  for  their  valleys,  forgetting 
How  warmly  the  morning  sun  kissed 

Our  hills,  as  they  shrugged  their  green 

shoulders 
Above  the  white  sheets  of  the  mist. 

Their  carpets  of  dyed  wool  were  softer, 
We  said,  than  the  planks  of  our  floor, 

Forgetting  the  flowers  that  in  summer 
Spread   out  their  gold  mats  at   our 
door. 

The  storm  spit  its  wrath  in  the  chim- 
ney, 

And  blew  the  cold  ashes  aside, 
And  only  one  poor  little  faggot 

Hung  out  its  red  tongue  as  it  died, 

When  Roslyn  and  I  through  the  dark- 
ness 

Crept  off  to  our  shivering  beds, 
A  thousand  vague  fancies  and  wishes 

Still  wildly  astir  in  our  heads  : 

Not  guessing  that  we,  too,  were  straying 
In  thought  on  a  sand-covered  track, 

Like  the  camel  a-dying  for  water, 
And  bearing  the  gold  on  his  back. 


A  WALK  THROUGH  THE  SNOW. 

I  WALKED  from  our  wild  north  country 
once, 

In  a  driving  storm  of  snow  ; 
Forty  and  seven  miles  in  a  day  — 

You  smile, —  do  you  think  it  slow  ? 


10 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


You  would  n't  if  ever  you  had  ploughed 
Through  a  storm  like  that,  I  trow. 

There  was  n't  a  cloud  as  big   as   my 

hand, 

The  summer  before  in  the  sky  , 
The  grass  in  the  meadows  was  ground 

to  dust, 

The  springs  and  wells  went  dry  ; 
We  must  have   corn,  and  three  stout 

men 
Were  picked  to  go  and  buy. 

Well,  I  was  one;  two  bags  I  swung 

Across  my  shoulder,  so  ! 
And  kissed  my  wife  and  boys,  —  their 
eyes 

Were  blind  to  see  me  go. 
'T  was  a  bitter  day,  and  just  as  th'  sun 

Went  down,  we 'met  the  snow  ! 

At  first  we  whistled  and  laughed  and 

sung, 

Our  blood  so  nimbly  stirred  ; 
But  as  the  snow-clogs  dragged  at  our 

feet, 

And  the  air  grew  black  and  blurred, 
We  walked  together  for  miles  and  miles, 
And  did  not  speak  a  word  ! 

I  never  saw  a  wilder  storm  : 
It  blew  and  beat  with  a  will ; 

Beside  me,  like  two  men  of  sleet, 
Walked  my  two  mates,  until 

They  fell  asleep  in  their  armor  of  ice, 
And  both  of  them  stood  still. 

I  knew  that  they  were  warm  enough, 

And  yet  I  could  not  bear 
To  strip  them  of  their  cloaks ;  their  eyes 

Were  open  and  a-stare; 
And  so  I  laid  their  hands  across 

Their  breasts,  and  left  them  there. 

And  ran,  —  O  Lord,  I  cannot  tell 

How  fast  !  in  my  dismay 
I  thought  the  fences  and  the  trees  — 

The  cattle,  where  they  lay 
So  black  against  their  stacks  of  snow  — 

All  swam  the  other  way  ! 

And  when  at  dawn  I  saw  a  hut, 
With  smoke  upcurling  wide, 

I  thought  it  must  have  been  my  mates 
That  lived,  and  I  that  died  ; 

'T  was  heaven  to  see  through  th'  frosty 

panes 
The  warm,  red  cheeks  inside  ! 


THE    WATER-BEARER. 

'T  WAS  in  the  middle  of  summer, 

And  burning  hot  the  sun, 
That  Margaret  sat  on  the  low-roofed 
porch, 

A-singing  as  she  spun  : 

Singing  a  ditty  of  slighted  love, 
That  shook  with  every  note 

The  softly  shining  hair  that  fell 
In  ripples  round  her  throat. 

The  changeful  color  of  her  cheek 
At  a  breath  would  fall  and  rise, 

And  even  th'  sunny  lights  of  hope 
Made  shadows  in  her  eyes. 

Beneath  the  snowy  petticoat 
You  guessed  the  feet  were  bare, 

By  the  slippers  near  her  on  the  floor,— 
A  dainty  little  pair. 

She  loved  the  low  and  tender  tones 
The  wearied  summer  yields, 

When  out  of   her  wheaten   leash  she 

slips 
And  strays  into  frosty  fields. 

And  better  than  th'  time  that  all 

The  air  with  music  fills, 
She  loved  the  little  sheltered  nest 

Alive  with  yellow  bills. 

But  why  delay  my  tale,  to  make 

A  poem  in  her  praise  ? 
Enough  that  truth  and  virtue  shone 

In  all  her  modest  ways. 

'T-was   noon-day  when   the    housewife 
said. 

"  Now,  Margaret,  leave  undone 
Your  task  of  spinning-work,  and  set 

Your  wheel  out  of  the  sun  ; 

"  And  tie  your  slippers  on,  and  take 

The  cedar-pail  with  bands 
Yellow  as  gold,  and  bear  to  the  field 

Cool  water  for  the  hands  !  " 

And  Margaret  set  her  wheel  aside, 
And  breaking  off,  her  thread, 

Went  forth  into  the  harvest-field 
With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 
With  shining  yellow  bands, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


II 


Through  clover  reaching  its  red  tops 
Almost  into  her  hands. 

Her  ditty  flowing  on  the  air, 

For  she  did  not  break  her  song,    . 

And  the  water  dripping  o'er  th'  grass, 
From  her  pail  as  she  went  along,  — 

Over  the  grass  that  said  to  her, 
Trembling  through  all  its  leaves, 

"  A  bright  rose  for  some  harvester 
To  bind  among  his  sheaves  !  " 

And  clouds  of  gay  green  grasshoppers 

Flew  up  the  way  she  went, 
And   beat   their   wings   against  their 
sides, 

And  chirped  their  discontent. 

And  the  blackbird  left  the  piping  of 

His  amorous,  airy  glee, 
And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing,  — 

An  evil  sign  to  see. 

The  meadow-herbs,  as  if  they  felt 
Some  secret  wound,  in  showers 

Shook  down  their  bright  buds  till  her 

way 
Was  ankle-deep  with  flowers. 

But  Margaret  never  heard  th'  voice 
That  sighed  in  th'  grassy  leaves, 

"  A  bright  rose  for  some  harvester 
To  bind  among  his  shsaves  !  " 

Nor  saw  the  clouds  of  grasshoppers 

Along  her  path  arise, 
Nor  th'  daisy  hang  -her  head  aside 

And  shut  her  golden  eyes. 

She  never  saw  the  blackbird  when 
He  hushed  his  amorous  glee, 

And  put  his  head  beneath  his  wing,  — 
That  evil  sign  to  see. 

Nor  did  she  know  the  meadow-herbs 
Shook  down  their  buds  in  showers 

To  choke  her  pathway,  though  her  feet 
Were  ankle-deep  in  flowers. 

But  humming  still  of  slighted  love, 

That  shook  at  every  note 
The  softly  shining  hair  that  fell 

In  ripples  round  her  throat, 

She   came   'twixt    winrows   heaped   as 

high,  m 

And  higher  than  her  waist, 


And  under  a  bush  of  sassafras 
The  cedar-pail  she  placed. 

And  with  the  drops  like  starry  rain 

A-glittering  in  her  hair, 
She  gave  to  every  harvester 

His  cool  and  grateful  share. 

But  there  was  one  with  eyes  so  sweet 

Beneath  his  shady  brim, 
That  thrice  within  the  cedar-pail 

She  dipped  her  cup  for  him  ! 

What  wonder  if  a  young  man's  heart 
Should  feel  her  beauty's  charm, 

And  in  his  fancy  clasp  her  like 
The  sheaf  within  his  arm  ; 

What  wonder  if  his  tender  looks, 
That  seemed  the  sweet  disguise 

Of  sweeter  things  unsaid,  should  make 
A  picture  in  her  eyes  ! 

What  wonder  if  the  single  rose 
That  graced  her  cheek  erewhile, 

Deepened  its  cloudy  crimson,  till 
It  doubled  in  his  smile  ! 

Ah  me  !  the  housewife  never  said, 
Again,  when  Margaret  spun,  — 

"Now  leave  your   task   a  while,   and 

set 
Your  wheel  out  of  the  sun  ; 

"  And  tie  your  slippers  on,  and  take 
The  pail  with  yellow  bands, 

And  bear  into  the  harvest-field 
Cool  water  for  the  hands." 

For  every  day,  and  twice  a-day, 
Did  Margaret  break  her  thread, 

And  singing,  hasten  to  the  field, 
With  her  pail  upon  her  head,  — 

Her  pail  of  sweetest  cedar-wood, 
And  shining  yellow  bands,  — 

For  all  her  care  was  now  to  bear 
Cool  water  to  the  hands. 

What  marvel  if  the  young  man's  love 

Unfolded  leaf  by  leaf, 
Until  within  his  arms  ere  long 

He  clasped  her  like  a  sheaf  ! 

What  marvel  if  'twas  Margaret's  heart 
With  fondest  hopes  that  beat, 

While  th'  young  man's  fancy  idly  lay 
As  his  sickle  in  the  wheat. 


12 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


That,  while  her  thought  flew,  maiden- 
like, 

To  years  of  marriage  bliss, 
His  lay  like  a  bee  in  a  flower  shut  up 

Within  the  moment's  kiss  ! 

What  marvel  if  his  love  grew  cold, 

And  fell  off  leaf  by  leaf, 
And  that  her  heart  was  choked  to  death, 

Like  the  rose  within  his  sheaf. 

When  autumn  filled  her  lap  with  leaves, 

Yellow,  and  cold,  and  wet, 
The  bands  of  th'  pail  turned  black,  and 
th'  wheel 

On  the  porch-side,  idle  set. 

And  Margaret's  hair  was  combed  and 
tied 

Under  a  cap  of  lace, 
And  th'  housewife  held  the  baby  up 

To  kiss  her  quiet  face  ; 

And  all  the  sunburnt  harvesters 
Stood  round  the  door,  —  each  one 

Telling  of  some  good  word  or  deed 
That  she  had  said  or  done. 

Nay,  there  was  one  that  pulled  about 

1  (is  face  his  shady  brim, 
As  if  it  were  his  kiss,  not  Death's, 

That  made  her  eyes  so  dim. 

And  while  the  tearful  women  told 
That  when  they  pinned  her  shroud, 

One  tress  from  th'  ripples  round  her  neck 
Was  gone,  he  wept  aloud  ; 

And  answered,  pulling  down  his  brim 

Until  he  could  not  see, 
It  was  some  ghost  that  stole  the  tress, 

For  that  it  was  not  he  ! 

'T  is  years  since  on  the  cedar-pail 
The  yellow  bands  grew  black,  — 

'T  is  years  since  in  the  harvest-field 
They  turned  th'  green  sod  back 

To  give  poor  Margaret  room,  and  all 
Who  chance  that  way  to  pass, 

May  see  at  the  head  of  her  narrow  bed 
A  bush  of  sassafras. 

Yet  often  in  the  time  o'  th'  year 
When  the  hay  is  mown  and  spread, 

There   walks  a   maid   in   th'  midnight 

shade 
With  a  pail  upon  her  head. 


THE   BEST   JUDGMENT. 

GET  up,  my  little  handmaid, 
And  see  what  you  will  see  ; 

The  stubble-field's  and  all  the  fields 
Are  white  as  they  can  be. 

Put  on  your  crimson  cashmere, 
And  hood  so  soft  and  warm, 

With  all  its  woolen  linings, 
And  never  heed  the  storm. 

For  you  must  find  the  miller 
In  the  west  of  Wertburg-town, 

And  bring  me  meal  to  feed  my  cows, 
Before  the  sun  is  down. 

Then  woke  the  little  handmaid, 

From  sleeping  on  her  arm, 
And  took  her  crimson  cashmere, 

And  hood  with  woolen  warm ; 

And  bridle,  with  its  buckles 

Of  silver,  from  the  wall, 
And  rode  until  the  golden  sun 

Was  sloping  to  his  fall. 

Then  on  the  miller's  door-stone, 
In  the  west  of  Wertburg-town, 

She  dropt  the  bridle  from  her  hands, 
And  quietly  slid  down. 

And  when  to  her  sweet  face  her  beast 
Turned  round,  as  if  he  said, 

"  How    cold    I    am ! "    she   took    hei 

hood 
And  put  it  on  his.head. 

Soft  spoke  she  to  the  miller, 

"  Nine  cows  are  stalled  at  home, 

And  hither  for  three  bags  of  meal, 
To  feed  them,  I  am  come." 

Now'when  the  miller  saw  the  price 
She  brought  was  not  by  half 

Enough  to  buy  three  bags  of  meal, 
He  filled  up  two  with  chaff. 

The  night  was  wild  and  windy, 
The  moon  was  thin  and  old, 

As  home  the  little  handmaid  rode 
All  shivering  with  the  cold, 

Beside  the  river,  black  with  ice, 
And  through  the  lonesome  wood  ; 

The  snow  up^p  her  hair  the  while 
A-gUthering  like  a  hood. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  PO 


And  when  beside  the  roof-tree 
Her  good  beast  neighed  aloud, 

Her  pretty  crimson  cashmere 
Was  whiter  than  a  shroud. 

"  Get  down,  you  silly  handmaid," 
The  old  dame  cried,  "get  down,  — 

You  've  been  a  long  time  riding 

From  the  west  of  Wertburg-town  !  " 

And  from  her  oaken  settle 
Forth  hobbled  she  amain,  — 

Alas  !  the  slender  little  hands 
Were  frozen  to  the  rein. 

Then  came  the  neighbors,  one  and  all, 

With  melancholy  brows, 
Mourning  because  the  dame  had  lost 

The  keeper  of  her  cows. 

And  cursing  the  rich  miller, 

In  blind,  misguided  zeal, 
Because  he  sent  two  bags  of  chaff 

And  only  one  of  meal. 

Dear  Lord,  how  little  man's  award 

The  right  or  wrong  attest, 
And  he  who  judges  least,  I  think, 

Is  he  who  judges  best. 


HUGH   THORNDYKE. 

EGALTON'S  hills  are  sunny, 
And  brave  with  oak  and  pine, 

And  Egal ton's  sons  and  daughters 
Are  tall  and  straight  and  fine. 

The  harvests  in  the  summer 
Cover  the  land  like  a  smile, 

For  Egal  ton's  men  and  women 
Are  busy  all  the  while. 

'T  is  merry  in  the  mowing 
To  see  the- great  swath  fall, 

A.nd  the  little  laughing  maidens 
Raking,  one  and  all. 

Their  heads  like  golden  lilies 

Shining  over  the  hay, 
And  every  one  among  them 

As  sweet  as  a  rose  in  May. 

And  yet  despite  the  favor 

Which  Heaven  doth  thus  alot, 

Egalton  has  its  goblin, 

As  what  good  land  has  not  ? 


Hugh  Thorndyke  — 

He  is  not  living  no 
Was  tempted  by  this  crea1 

One  day  to  leave  his  plow, 

And  sit  beside  the  furrow 
In  a  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 

For  the  lying  goblin  told  him 
That  he  would  sow  his  wheat. 

And  told  him  this,  morever, 

That  if  he  would  not  mind, 
His  house  should  burn  to  ashes, 

His  children  be  struck  blind  ! 

So,  trusting  half,  half  frightened, 
Poor  Hugh  with  many  a  groan 

Waited  beside  the  furrow, 
But  the  wheat  was  never  sown. 

And  when  the  fields  about  him 
Grew  white,  —  with  very  shame 

He  told  his  story,  giving 
The  goblin  all  the  blame. 

Now  Hugh's  wife  loved  her  husband, 

And  when  he  told  her  this, 
She  took  his  brawny  hands  in  hers 

And  gave  them  each  a  kiss, 

Saying,  we  ourselves  this  goblin 
Shall  straightway  lay  to  rest,  — 

The  more  he  does  his  worst,  dear  Hugh, 
The  more  we  '11  do  our  best !      / 

To  work  they  went,  and  all  turned  out 

Just  as  the  good  wife  said, 
And  Hugh  was  blest,  —  his   corn  that 
year, 

Grew  higher  than  his  head. 

They  sing  a  song  in  Egalton 
Hugh  made  there,  long  ago, 

Which  says  that  honest  love  and  work 
Are  all  we  need  below. 


FAITHLESS. 

SEVEN  great  windows  looking  seaward, 
Seven    smooth    columns   white    and 

high  ; 

Here  it  was  we  made  our  bright  plans, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Soft  and  sweet  the  water  murmured 
By  yon  stone  wall,  low  and  gray, 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


'T  was  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May.  ' 

On  the  porch,  now  dark  and  lonesome, 
Sat  we  as  the  hours  went  by, 

Fearing  nothing,  hoping  all  things 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Singing  low  and  pleasant  ditties, 
Kept  tne  tireless  wind  his  way, 

Through   the  moonlight  and  the  mid- 
night 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

Not  for  sake  of  pleasant  ditties, 
Such  as  winds  may  sing  or  sigh, 

Sat  we  on  the  porch  together, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Shrilly  crew  the  cock  so  watchful, 
Answering  to  the  watch-dog's  bay, 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

Had  the  gates  of  Heaven  been  open 
We  would  then  have  passed  them  by, 

Well  content  with  earthly  pleasures, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

I  have  seen  the  bees  thick-flying,  — 
Azure-winged  and  ringed  with  gold  ; 

I  have  seen  the  sheep  from  washing 
Come  back  snowy  to  the  fold  ; 

And  her  hair  was  bright  as  bees  are, 
Bees  with  shining  golden  bands  ; 

And  no  wool  was  ever  whiter 
Than  her  little  dimpled  hands. 

Oft  we  promised  to  be  lovers, 

Howe'er  fate  our  faith  should  try  ; 

Giving  kisses  back  for  kisses, 
Mildred  Jocelyn  and  I. 

Tears,  sad  tears,  be  stayed  from  falling  ; 

Ye  can  bring  no  faintest  ray 
From  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 

Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 

If  some  friend  would  come  and  tell  me, 
"  On  your  Mildred's  eyes  so  blue 

Grass  has  grown,  but  on  her  death -bed 
She  was  saying  prayers  for  you  ; " 

Here  beside  the  smooth  white  columns 
L  should  not  so  grieve  to-day, 

For  the  moonlight  and  the  midnight 
Of  the  middle  of  the  May. 


MY   FADED    SHAWL. 

TELL  you  a  story,  do  you  say  ? 

Whatever  my  wits  remember  ? 
Well,  going  down  to  the  woods  one  day 
Through  the  winds  o'  the   wild  No- 
vember, 
I  met  a  lad,  called  Charley. 

We  lived  on  the  crest  o'er  the  Krumley 

ridge, 

And  I  was  a  farmer's  daughter, 
And   under   the   hill   by   the    Krumley 

bridge 

Of  the  crazy  Krumley  water, 
Lived  this  poor  lad,  Charley. 

Right  well  I  knew  his  ruddy  cheek, 
And  step  as  light  as  a  feather, 

Although  we  never  were  used  to  speak, 
And  never  to  play  together, 
I  and  this  poor  lad  Charley. 

So,  when  I  saw  him  hurrying  down 
My  path,  will  you  believe  me  ? 

I  knit  my  brow  to  an  ugly  frown,  — 
Forgive  me,  oh  forgive  me  ! 
Sweet  shade  of  little  Charley. 

The  dull  clouds  dropped  their  skirts  of 

snow 

On  the  hills,  and  made  them  colder ; 
I  was  only  twelve  years  old,  or  so, 
And  may  be  a  twelve-month  older 
Was  Charley,  dearest  Charley. 

A  faded  shawl,  with  flowers  o'  blue, 

All  tenderly  and  fairly 
Enwrought   by   his    mother's    hand,   I 

knew, 

He  wore  that  day,  my  Charley, 
My  little  love,  my  Charley. 

His  great  glad  eyes  with  light  were  lit 
Like  the  dewy  light  o'  the  morning ; 

His  homespun  jacket,  not  a  whit 
Less  proudly,  for  my  scorning, 
He  wore,  brave-hearted  Charley. 

I  bore  a  pitcher,  —  't  was  our  pride,  — 
At  the  fair  my  father  won  it, 

And  consciously  I  turned  the  side 
With  the  golden  lilies  on  it, 
To  dazzle  the  eyes  o'  Charley. 

This  pitcher,  and  a  milk-white  loaf, 
Piping  hot  from  the  platter, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS, 


When,  where  the  path  turned  sharply 

off 

To  the  crazy  Krumley  water, 
I  came  upon  my  Charley. 

He  smiled  — my  pulses  never  stirred 
From  their  still  and  steady  measures, 

Till  the  wind  came  flapping  down  like 

a  bird 

And  caught  away  my  treasures. 
"  Help  me,  O  Charley  !  Charley  ! 

My  loaf,  my  golden  lilies  gone  !  " 

My  heart  was  all  a-flutter  ; 
For  I  saw  them  whirling  on  and  on 

To  the  frozen  Krumley  water, 
And  then  I  saw  my  Charley, 

The  frayed  and  faded  shawl  from  his 

neck 

Unknot,  with  a  quick,  wise  cunning, 
And  speckled  with  snow-flakes,  toss  it 

back, 

That  he  might  be  free  for  running. 
My  good,  great-hearted  Charley. 

laid  it  softly  on  my  arm, 
I  warmed  it  in  my  bosom, 
And  traced  each  broider-stitch   to  the 

form 

Of  its  wilding  model  blossom, 
For  sake  of  my  gentle  Charley. 

Away,  away  !  like  a  shadow  fleet  ! 
The  air  was  thick  and  blinding  ; 
The  icy  stones  were  under  his  feet, 
And  the  way  was  steep  and  winding. 
Come  back !  come  back  my  Char- 
ley ! 

He  waved  his  ragged  cap  in  the  air, 

My  childish  fears  to  scatter  ; 
Dear  Lord,  was  it  Charley?     Was  he 

there, 

On  th'  treacherous  crust  o'  th'  water? 
No  more  !    't  is  death  !    my  Char- 
ley. 

The  thin  blue  glittering  sheet  of  ice 
Bends,  breaks,  and  falls  asunder ; 
His  arms  are  lifted  once,  and  twice  ! 
My  God  !  he  is  going  under  ! 

He  is  drowned  !  he  is   dead  !  my 
Charley. 

The  wild  call  stops,  —  the  blood  runs 

chill  ; 
I  dash  the  tears  from  my  lashes, 


And  strain  my  gaze    to  th'  foot  o'  th' 

hill,— 

Who  flies  so  fast  through  the  rushes  ? 
My  drowned  love  ?  my  Charley  ? 

My  brain  is  wild,  —  I  laugh,  I  cry,  — 

The  chill  blood  thaws  and  rallies  : 
What  holds  he  thus,  so  safe  and  high  ? 
My  loaf  ?  and  my  golden  lilies  ? 
Charley  !  my  sweet,  sweet  Char- 
ley! 

Across  my  mad  brain  word  on  word 
Of  tenderness  went  whirling  ; 

I  kissed  him,  called  him  my  little  bird 
O'  th'  woods,  my  dove,  my  darling, — 
My  true,  true  love,  my  Charley. 

In  what  sweet  phrases  he  replied 
I  know  not  now  —  no  matter  — 
This  only,  that  he  would  have  died 
In  the  crazy  Krumley  water 
To   win  my  praise, — dear  Char- 
ley! 

He  took  the  frayed  and  faded  shawl, 

For  his  sake  warmed  all  over, 
And  wrapped  me  round  and  round  with 

all 

The  tenderness  of  a  lover,  — 
My  best,  my  bravest  Charley  ! 

And  when  his  shoes  o'  the  snows  were 

full,— 

Aye,  full  to  their  tops.  —  a-smiling 
He  said  they  were  lined  with  a  fleece  o' 

wool, 

The  pain  o'  th'  frost  beguiling. 
Was  ever  a  lad  like  Charley  ? 

So  down    the    slope    o'  th'    Krumley 

ridge. 

Our  hands  locked  fast  together, 
And  over  the  crazy  Krumley  bridge, 
We  went  through  the  freezing  weath- 
er, — 
I  and  my  drowned  Charley. 

The  corn  fields  all  of  ears  were  bare  ; 
But  the  stalks,  so  bright  and  brittle, 
And  the  black  and  empty  husks  were 

there 

For  the  mouths  of  the  hungry  cat- 
tle. 
We  passed  them,  I  and  Charley. 

And  passed  the  willow-tree  that  went 
With  the  wind,  as  light  as  a  feather, 


i6 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And   th'    two    proud    oaks   with    their 

shoulders  bent 

Till  their  facft  came  together,  — 
Whispering,  I  said  to  Charley  : 

The  hollow  sycamore,  so  white, 

The  old  gum,  straight  and  solemn, 
With  never  the  curve  of  a  root  in  sight ; 
But    set    in   the  ground  like   a  col- 
umn, — 
I,  prattling  to  my  Charley. 

"^  left  behind  the  sumach  hedge, 
~i.nd  the  waste  of  stubble  crossing, 
Came  at  last  to  the  dusky  edge 
Of  the  woods,  so  wildly  tossing,  — 
I  and  my  quiet  Charley. 

Ankle-deep  in  the  leaves  we  stood,  — 
The  leaves  that  were  brown  as  leath- 
er 
And   saw   the   choppers   chopping   the 

wood,  — 

Seven  rough  men  together,  — 
I  and  my  drooping  Charley. 

I  see  him  now  as  T  saw  him  stand 
With  my  loaf— he  had  hardly  won 

it  — 

And  the  beautiful  pitcher  in  his  hand, 
With  the  golden  lilies  on  it, — 
My  little  saint  —  my  Charley. 

The  stubs  were  burning  here  and  there, 

The  winds  the  fierce  flames  blowing. 

And   the   arms  o'  th'   choppers,  brown 

and  bare, 

Now  up,  now  down  are  going,  — 
I  turn  to  them  from  Charley. 

Right  merrily  the  echoes  ring 
From  the  sturdy  work  a-doing, 

And  as  the  woodsmen  chop,  they  sing 

Of  the  girls  that  they  are  wooing. 

O  what  a  song  for  Charley  ! 

This  way  an  elm  begins  to  lop, 
And  that,  its  balance  losing, 
And  the  squirrel  comes  from-  his  nest 

in  the  top, 

And  sits  in  the  boughs  a-musing. 
What  ails  my  little  Charley  ? 

The  loaf  from  out  his  hand  he  drops, 

His  eyelid  flutters,  closes  ; 
He  tries  to  speak,  he  whispers,  stops, — 

His  mouth  its  rose-red  loses.  — 
One  look,  just  one,  my  Charley. 


And  now  his  white  and  frozen  cheek 
Each  wild-eyed  chopper  fixes, 

And  never  a  man  is  heard  to  speak 
As  they  set  their  steel-blue  axes, 
And  haste  to  the  help  o'  Charley  ! 

Say,  what  does  your  beautiful  pitcher 

hold  ? 

Come  tell  us  if  you  can,  sir  ! 
The  chopper's  question  was  loud   and 

bold, 

But  never  a  sign  nor  answer  : 
All  fast  asleep  was  Charley. 

The  stubs  are  burning  low  to  th'  earth, 

The  winds  the  fierce  flames  flaring, 
And   now  to   the   edge   of  the   crystal 

hearth 

The  men  in  their  arms  are  bearing 
The  clay-cold  body  of  Charley. 

O'er  heart,  o'er  temple  those  rude  hands 

g°. 

Each  hand  as  light  as  a  brother's, 
As  they  gather  about  him  in  the  snow, 
Like  a  company  of  mothers,  — 
My  dead,  my  darling  Charley. 

Before  them  all  (my  heart  grew  bold,) 

From  off  my  trembling  bosom, 
I  unwound  the  mantle,  fold  by  fold, 
All  for  my  blighted  blossom, 

My  sweet  white  flower,  — my  Char- 
ley. 

I  have  tokens  large,  I  have  tokens  small 
Of  all  my  life's  lost  pleasures, 

But  that  poor  frayed  and  faded  shawl 

Is  the  treasure  of  my  treasures,  — 

The  first,  last  gift'of  Charley. 


OLD    CIIUMS. 

Is  it  you,*Jack  ?     Old  boy,  is  it  really 

you  ? 
I  should  n't  have  known  you  but  that 

I  was  told 
You  might  be  expected  ;  —  pray  how  do 

you  do  ? 

But  what,  under   heaven,  has  made 
you  so  old  ? 

Your  hair  !    why,  you  've  only  a  little 

gray  fuzz  ! 

And    your  beard  's  white  !   but    that 
can  be  beautifully  dyed  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


And  your  legs  are  n't  but  just  half  as 

long  as  they  was  ; 

And  then  —  stars  and  garters!   your 
vest  is  so  wide  ! 

Is  that  your  hand  ?   Lord,  how  I  envied 

you  that 
In  the  time  of  our  courting,  —  so  soft 

and  so  small, 
And   now  it  is  callous   inside,  and  so 

fat,  — 

Well,  you  beat  the  very  old  deuce, 
that  is  all. 

Turn  round  !  let  me  look  at  you  !  is  n't 

it  odd, 
How  strange  in  a  few  years  a  fellow's 

chum  grows  ! 
Your  eye  is  shrunk  up  like  a  bean  in  a 

pod, 

And  what  are  these  lines  branching 
out  from  your  nose  ? 

Your  back  has  gone  up  and  your  shoul- 
ders gone  down, 
And  all  the  old  roses  are  under  the 

plough; 
Why,  Jack,  if  we  'd  happened  to  meet 

about  town, 

I  would  n't    have   known  you  from 
Adam,  I  vow ! 

You  've  had  trouble,  have  you  ?    I  'm 

sorrv  ;  but  John, 
All  trouble  sits  lightly  at  your  time 

of  life. 
How  's  Billy,  my  namesake  ?    You  don't 

say  he  's  gone 

To  the  war,  John,  and  that  you  have 
buried  your  wife  ? 

Poor  Katherine  !  so  she  has  left  you  — 

ah  me  ! 
I  thought  she  would  live  to  be  fifty, 

or  more. 

What  is  it  you  tell  me  ?     She  was  fifty- 
three  ! 

Oh  no,  Jack  !  she  was  n't  so  much,  by 
a  score  ! 

Well,   there's   little   Katy, — was   that 

her  name,  John  ? 
She  '11  rule  your  house  one  of  these 

davs  like  a  queen. 
That  baby  !  good  Lord !  is  she  married 

and  gone  ? 

With  a  Jack  ten  years  old !   and  a 
Katy  fourteen  ! 


17 

Why,   you  're 


Then    I    give    it    up ! 

younger  than  I 
By  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  to  think 

you  've  come  back 
A  sober  old  gray  beard,  just  ready  to 

die! 

I   don't   understand    how   it   is — do 
you,  Jack  ? 

I  've  got  all  my  faculties  yet,  sound  and 

bright ; 

Slight  failure  my  eyes  are  beginning 
to  hint  ;  /"" 

But  still,  with  my  spectacles  on,  ai, 

light 

'Twixt  them  and  the  page,  I  can  read 
any  print. 

My  hearing  is  dull,  and  my  leg  is  more 

spare, 
Perhaps,  than  it  was  when  I  beat  you 

at  ball ; 
My  breath  gives  out,  too,  if  I  go  up  a 

stair,  — 

But  nothing  worth  mentioning,  noth- 
ing at  all ! 

My  hair  is  just  turning  a  little,  you 

see, 

And  lately  I  've  put  on  a  broader- 
brimmed  hat 
Than  I  wore  at  your  wedding,  but  you 

will  agree, 

Old  fellow,  I  look  all  the  better  for 
that. 

I  'm  sometimes  a  little  rheumatic,  't  is 

true, 
And  my  nose  is  n't  quite  on  a  straight 

line,  they  say  ; 
For  all  that,  I  don't  think  I  've  changed 

much,  do  you  ? 

And  I  don't  feel  a  day  older,  Jack, 
not  a  day. 


THE   SHOEMAKER. 

Now  the  hickory  with  its  hum 

Cheers  the  wild  and  rainy  weather, 

And  the  shoemaker  has  come 

With  his  lapstone,  last,  and  leather. 

With  his  head  as  white  as  wool, 
With  the  wrinkles  getting  bolder, 

And  his  heart  with  news  as  full 
As  the  wallet  on  his  shoulder. 


i8 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


How  the  children's  hearts  will  beat, 
How  their  eyes  will  shine  with  pleas- 
ure 

As  he  sets  their  little  feet, 

Bare  and  rosy,  in  his  measure, 

And  how,  behind  his  chair, 

They  will  steal  grave  looks  to  sum- 
mon, 
As  he  ties  away  his  hair 

From  his  forehead,  like  a  woman. 

When  he  tells  the  merry  news 

I  low  their  eyes  will  laugh  and  glisten, 

While  the  mother  binds  the  shoes 
And  they  gather  round  and  listen. 

But  each  one,  leaning  low 

On  his  lapstone,  will  be  crying, 

As  he  tells  how  little  Jo, 

With  a  broken  back  is  dying. 

Of  the  way  he  came  to  fall 
In  the  flowery  April  weather, 

Of  the  new  shoes  on  the  wall 
That  are  hanging,  tied  together. 

How  the  face  of  little  Jo 

Has  grown  white,  and  they  who  love 

him 
See  the  shadows  come  and  go, 

As  if  angels  flew  above  him. 

And  the  old  shoemaker,  true 

To  the  woe  of  the  disaster, 
Will  uplift  his  apron  blue 

To  his  eyes,  then  work  the  faster. 


TO  THE  WIND. 

STEER  hither,  rough  old  mariner, 

Keeping  your  jolly  crew 
Beating  about  in  the  seas  of  life,  — 

Steer  hither,  and  tell  me  true 
About  my  little  son  Maximus, 

Who  sailed  away  with  you ! 

Seven  and  twenty  years  ago 

He  came  to  us,  —  ah  me! 
The  snow  that  fell  that  whistling  night 

Was  not  so  pure  as  he, 
And  I  was  rich  enough,  I  trow, 

When  I  took  him  on  my  knee. 

I  was  rich  enough,  and  when  I  met 
A  man,  unthrift  and  lorn, 


Whom  I  a  hundred  times  had  met 
With  less  of  pity  than  scorn, 

I  opened  my  purse,  —  it  was  well  for 

him 
That  Maximus  was  born ! 

We  have  five  boys  at  home,  erect 
And  straight  of  limb,  and  tall, 

Gentle,  and  loving  all  that  God 
Has  made,  or  great  or  small, 

But  Maximus,  our  youngest  born, 
Was  the  gentlest  of  them  all ! 

Yet  was  he  brave,  —  they  all  are  brave, 

Not  one  for  favor  or  frown 
That  fears  to  set  his  strength  against 

The  bravest  of  the  town, 
But  this,  our  little  Maximus, 

Could  fight  when  he  was  down. 

Six  darling  boys  !  not  one  of  all, 

If  we  had  had  to  choose, 
Could  we  have  singled  from  the  rest 

To  sail  on  such  a  cruise, 
But  surely  little  Maximus 

Was  not  the  one  to  lose  ! 

His  hair  divided  into  slips, 

And  tumbled  every  way,  — 
His  mother  always  called  them  curls, 

She  has  one  to  this  day,  — 
And  th'  nails  of  his  hands  were  thin  and 
red 

As  the  leaves  of  a  rose  in  May. 

Steer  hither,  rough  mariner,  and  bring 
Some  news  of  our  little  lad, — 

If  he  be  anywhere  out  of  th'  grave 
It  will  make  his  mother  glad, 

Tho'  he  grieved  her  more  with  his  way- 
wardness 
Than  all  the  boys  she  had. 

I  know  it  was  against  himself, 

For  he  was  good  and  kind, 
That  he  left  us,  though  he  saw  our  eyes 

With  tears,  for  his  sake,  blind,  — 
Oh  how  can  you  give  to  such  as  he, 

Your  nature,  wilful  wind  ! 


LITTLE   CYRUS. 

EMILY  MAYFIELD  all  the  day 
Sits  and  rocks  her  cradle  alone, 

And  never  a  neighbor  comes  to  say 
How  pretty  little  Cyrus  has  grown. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Meekly  Emily's  head  is  hung, 

Many  a  sigh  from  her  bosom  breaks, 

And  ne'er  such  pitiful  tune  was  sung 
As  that  her  lowly  lullaby  makes. 

Near   where    the   village   school-house 
stands, 

On  the  grass  by  the  mossy  spring, 
Merry  children  are  linking  hands, 

But  little  Cyrus  is  not  in  the  ring. 

"  They  might  make  room  for  me,  if  they 

tried,"    • 
He  thinks   as  he  listens  to  call  and 

shout, 

And  his  eyes  so  pretty  are  open  wide, 
Wondering  why  they  have   left  him 
out. 

Nightly  hurrying  home  they  go, 

Each,  of   the   praise   he   has  had  to 
boast ; 

But  never  an  honor  can  Cyrus  show, 
And  yet  he  studies  his  book  the  most. 

Little  Cyrus  is  out  in  the  hay,  — 

Not  where  the  clover  is  sweet  and  red, 

With  mates  of  his  tender  years  at  play, 
But  where  the  stubble  is  sharp,  in- 
stead, 

And  every  flowerless  shrub  and  tree 
That   takes   the    twinkling    noontide 
heat, 

Is  dry  and  dusty  as  it  can  be  ; 
There  with  his  tired,  sunburnt  feet 

Dragging  wearily,  Cyrus  goes, 
Trying  to  sing  as  the  others  do, 

But  never  the  stoutest  hand  that  mows 
Says,  "  It  is  work  too  hard  for  you, 

Little  Cyrus  ;  your  hands  so  small 
Bleed   with   straining   to   keep   your 

place, 
And  the  look  that  says  I  must  bear  it 

all 

Is  sadder  than  tears  in  your  childish 
face  : 

So  give  me  your  knotty  swath  to  mow, 
And  rest  a  while  on  the  shady  sward, 

Else  your  body  will  crooked  grow, 
Little  Cyrus,  from  working  hard." 

If  he  could  listen  to  words  like  that, 
The  stubble  would  not  be  half  so 
rough 


To  his  naked  feet,  and  his  ragged  hat 
Would  shield  him  from  sunshine  well 
enough. 

But  ne'er  a  moment  the  mowers  check 
Song  or  whistle,  to  think  of  him, 

With  blisters  burning  over  his  neck, 
Under  his  straw  hat's  ragged  brim. 

So,  stooping  over  the  field  he  goes, 
With  none  to  pity  if  he  complain, 

And  so  the  crook  in  his  body  grows, 
And  he  never  can  stand  up  straight 
again. 

The  cattle  lie  down  in  the  lane  so  still,  — 
The  scythes  in  the   apple-tree  shine 

bright, 
And  Cyrus  sits  on  the  ashen  sill 

Watching  the  motes,  in  the  streaks  of 
light, 

Quietly  slanting  out  of  the  sky, 
Over  the  hill  to  the  porch  so  low, 

Wondering  if  in  the  world  on  high 
There  will  be   any  briery  fields  to 


Emily  May  field,  pale  and  weak, 

Steals  to  his  side  in  the  light  so  dim, 

And  the  single  rose  in  his  swarthy  cheek 
Grows  double,  the  while  she  says  to 
him,  — 

Little  Cyrus,  't  is  many  a  day 

Since  one  with  just  your  own  sweet 

eyes, 
And  a  voice  as  rich  as  a  bird's  in  May, 

(Gently  she  kisses  the  boy  and  siyhs,) 

Here  on  the  porch  when  the  work  was 

done, 

Sat  with  a  young  girl,  (not  like  me,) 
Her  heart  was  light  as  the  wool   she 

spun, 

And  her  laughter  merry  as  it  could 
be; 

Her  hair  was  silken,  he  used  to  say, 
When   they    sat    on    the  porch-side, 

"  woeful  when," 

And  I  know  the  clover  you  mowed  to- 
day 

Was  not  more  red  than  her  cheeks 
were  then. 

He  told  her  many  a  story  wild, 
Like  this,  perhaps,  which  I  tell  to  you, 


2O 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY, 


And  she  was  a  woman  less  than  child 
And   thought   whatever  he  said  was 
true. 

From  home  and  kindred,  —  ah  me,  ah 

me  ! 
With  only  her  faith  in  his  love,  she 

fled, 
'T  was  all  like   a  dreaming,  and  when 

she  could  see 

She  owned  she  was  sinful  and  prayed 
to  be  dead. 

But  always,  however  long  she  may  live, 
Desolate,  desolate,  she  shall  repine, 

And  so  with  no  love  to  receive  or  to 

give, 
Her  face  is  as  sad  and  as  wrinkled  as 


Little  Cyrus,  trembling,  lays 

His  head  on  his  mother's  knee  to  cry, 
And  kissing  his  sunburnt  cheek,  she 
says, 

"  Hush,  my  darling,  it  was  not  I." 


FIFTEEN  AND  FIFTY. 

COME,  darling,  put  your  frown  aside  ! 

I  own  my  fault,  't  is  true,  't  is  true, 
There  is  one  picture  that  I  hide, 

Even  away  from  you  ! 

Why,  then,  I  do  not  love  you  ?     Nay, 
You  wrong  me  there,  my  pretty  one  : 

Remember  you  are  in  your  May; 
My  summer  days  are  done, 

My  autumn  days  are  come,  in  truth, 
And  blighting  frosts  begin  to  fall  ; 

You  are  the  sunny  light  of  youth, 
That  glorifies  it  all. 

Even  when  winter  clouds  shall  break 
In  storms,  I  shall  not  mind,  my  dear, 

For  you  within  my  heart  shall  make 
The  springtime  of  the  year  ! 

In  short,  life  did  its  best  for  me, 
When  first  our  paths  together  ran  ; 

But  I  had  lived,  you  will  agree, 
One  life,  ere  yours  began. 

I  must  have  smiled,  I  must  have  wept, 
Ere   mirth   or   moan    could   do   you 
wrong ; 


But  come,  and  see  the  picture,  kept 
Hidden  away  so  long  ! 

The  walk  will  not  be  strange  nor  far,  — 
Across  the  meadow,  toward  the  tree 

From  whose  thick  top  one  silver  star 
Uplifting  slow,  you  see. 

So  darling,  we  have  gained  the  height 
Where     lights    and    shadows    softly 
meet  ; 

Rest  you  a  moment,  —  full  in  sight, 
My  picture  lies  complete. 

A  hill-side  dark,  with  woods  behind, 
A  strip  of  emerald  grass  before,  — 

A  homely  house  ;  some  trees  that  blind 
Window,  and  wall,  and  door. 

A  singing  streamlet,  either  side 

Bordered    with    flowers,    geraniums 

gay> 

And  pinks,  with  red  mouths  open  wide 
For  sunshine,  all  the  day. 

A  tasseled  corn  field  on  one  hand, 
And  on  the  other  meadows  green, 

With  angles  of  bright  harvest  bend 
Wedged  sunnily  between. 

A  world  of  smiling  ways  and  walks, 
The   hop-vines   twisting  through  the 
pales, 

The  crimson  cups  o'  the  hollyhocks, 
The  lilies,  in  white  veils  ; 

The  porch  with  morning-glories  gay, 
And    sunken   step,    the   well-sweep 

tall, 
The   barn,  with  roof   'twixt  black  and 


And  warpt,  wind-shaken  wall  ; 

The  garden  with  the  fence  of  stone, 
The  lane  so  dusky  at  the  close, 

The  door-yard  gate  all  overgrown 
With  one  wild  smothering  rose  ; 

The  honeysuckle  that  has  blown 
His  trumpet  till  his  throat  is  red, 

And  the  wild  swallow,  mateless  flown 
Under  the  lonesome  shed  ; 

The     corn,    with    bean-pods     showing 
through, 

The  fields  that  to  the  sunset  lean, 
The  crooked  paths  along  the  dew, 

Telling  of  flocks  unseen. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


21 


The  bird  in  scarlet  colored  coat 
Flying  about  the  apple-tree  ; 

The  new  moon  in  her  shallow  boat, 
Sailing  alone,  you  see  ; 

The  aspen  at  the  window-pane, — 
The  pair  of  bluebirds  on  the  peach,  — 

The  yellow  waves  of  ripening  grain,  — 
You  see  them  all  and  each. 

The  shadows  stretching  to  the  door, 
From  far-off  hills,  and  nearer  trees, 

I  cannot  show  you  any  more, — 
The  landscape  holds  but  these. 

And  yet,  my  darling,  after  all 
'T  is  not  my  picture  you  behold  ; 

Your  house  is  ruined  near  to  fall,  — 
Your  flowers  are  dew  and  mould. 

I  wish  that  you  could  only  see, 

While  the  glad  garden  shines  its  best, 

The  little  rose  that  was  to  me 
The  queen  of  all  the  rest. 

The      bluebirds,  —  he      with      scarlet 
wings,— 

The  silver  brook,  the  sunset  glow, 
To  me  are  but  the  signs  of  things 

The  landscape  cannot  show. 

That  old   house  was  our  home  —  not 

ours ! 
You  were  not  bom  —  how  could  it 

be? 

That  window  where  you  see  the  flowers, 
Is  where  she  watciied  for  me, 

So  pale,  so  patient,  night  by  night, 
Her  eyes  upon  this  pathway  here, 

Until  at  last  I  came  in  Mght,  — 
Nay,  do  not  frown,  my  dear, 

That  was  another  world  !  and  so 
Between  us  there  can  be  no  strife ; 

I  was  but  twenty,  you  must  know, 
And  she  my  baby-wife  ! 

Twin  violets  by  a  shady  brook 

Were  like  her  eyes,  —  their  beaute- 
ousness 

Was  in  a  rainy,  moonlight  look 
Of  tears  and  tenderness. 

Her  fingers  had  a  dewy  touch  ; 

Grace  was  in  all  her  modest  ways  ; 
Forgive  my  praising  her  so  much,  — 

Sbe  cannot  hear  my  praise. 


Beneath  the  window  where  you  see 
The  trembling,  tearful  flowers,  she  lay, 

Her  arms  as  if  they  reached  for  me,  — 
Her  hair  put  smooth  away. 

The  closed  mouth  still  smiling  sweet, 
The  waxen  eyelids,  drooping  low, 

The  marriage-slippers  on  the  feet,  — 
The  marriage-dress  of  snow  ! 

And  still,  as  in  my  dreams,  I  do, 

I  kiss  the  sweet  white  hands,  the  eyes  ; 

My  heart  with  pain  is  broken  anew, 
My  soul  with  sorrow  dies. 

It  was,  they  said,  her  spirit's  birth, — 
That  she  was  gone,  a  saint  to  be  ;  . 

Alas  i  a  poor,  pale  piece  of  earth 
Was  all  that  I  could  see. 

In  tears,  my  darling  !  that  fair  brow 
With  jealous  shadows  overrun  ? 

A  score  of  flowers  upon  one  bough 
May  bloom  as  well  as  one  ! 

This  ragged  bush,  from  spring  to  fall 
Stands  here  with  living  glories  lit; 

And  every  flower  a-blush,  with  all 
That  doth  belong  to  it  1 

Look  on  it  !  learn  the  lesson  then, — 
No  more  than  we  evoke,  is  ours  ! 

The  great  law  holcleth  good  with  men, 
The  same  as  with  the  flowers. 

And  if  that  lost,  that  sweet  white  hand 
Had  never  blessed  me  with  its  light, 

You  had  not  been,  you  understand, 
More  than  you  are  to-night. 

This  foolish  pride  that  women  have 
To  play  upon  us,  —  to  enthrall, 

To    absorb,    doth    hinder    what     they 

crave,  — 
Their  being  loved  at  all ! 

Never  the  mistress  of  the  arts 
They  practice  on  us,  still  again 

And  o'er  again,  they  wring  our  hearts 
With  pain  that  giveth  pain  ! 

They  make  their  tyranny  a  boast, 
And  in  their  petulance  will  not  see 

That  he  is  always  bound  the  most, 
Who  in  the  most  is  free  ! 

They  prize  us  more  for  what  they  screen 
From  censure,  than  for  what  is  best ; 


22 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  you,  my  darling,  at  fifteen, 
Why,  you  are  like  the  rest ! 

Your  arms  would  find  me  now,  though  I 
Were  low  as  ever  guilt  can  fall ; 

And  that,  my  little  love,  is  why 
I  love  you,  after  all  ! 

Smiling  !  "  the  pain  is  worth  the  cost, 
That  wins  a  homily  so  wise  ?  " 

Ah,  little  tyrant,  I  am  lost, 
When  thus  you  tyrannize. ' 


JENNY   DUNLEATH. 

JENNY  DUNLEATH  coming  back  to  the 

town  ? 
"What !  coming  back  here  for  good,  and 

for  all  ? 
Well,  that 's  the  last  thing  for  Jenny  to 

do, — 
I  'd  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  — 

would  n't  you  ? 
Before   I  'd    come    back  !      She  '11  be 

pushed  to  the  wall. 
Some  slips,  I  can   tell  her,  are  never 

lived  down, 
And  she  ought  to  know  it.     It  's  really 

true, 
You  think,  that  she 's  coming  ?     How 

dreadfully  bold  ! 
But  one  don't  know  what  will  be  done, 

nowadays, 
And  Jenny  was   never   the   girl   to   be 

moved 
By  what  the  world  said  of  her.     What 

she  approved, 
She  would  do,  in  despite  of  its  blame 

or  its  praise. 
She  ought  to  be  wiser  by  this  time  — 

let  's  see  ; 
Why,   sure   as   you   live,   she   is  forty 

years  old  ! 
The    day  I  was  married  she  stood  up 

with  me, 
And  mv  Kate  is  twenty  :  ah  yes,  it  must 

be 

That  Jenny   is   forty,  at   least  — forty- 
three, 
It  may  be,  or  four.     She  was  older,  I 

know, 
A  good  deal,  when  she  was  bridesmaid, 

than  F, 
And    that  's    twenty    years,   now,   and 

longer,  ago  ; 
So  if  she  intends  to  come  back  and  deny 


Her  age,  as  't  is  likely  she  will,  I  can 

show 
The  plain  honest  truth,  by  the  age  of 

my  Kate, 
And  I  will,  too  !     To  see  an  old  maid 

tell  a  lie, 
Just  to  seem  to  be  young,  is  a  thing  that 

I  hate. 

You  thought  we  were  friends  ?    No,  my 

dear,  not  at  all  ! 

'T  is  true  we  were  friendly,  as  friendli- 
ness goes, 
But    one    gets    one's    friends    as    one 

chooses  one's  clothes, 
And  just  as  the  fashion  goes  out,  lets 

them  fall. 

I  will  not  deny  we  were  often  together 
About  the  time  Jenny  was  in  her  high 

feather  ; 
And  she  was  a  beauty  !    No  rose  of  the 

May 
Looked  ever  so  lovely  as  she   on   the 

day 
I   was  married.     She,  somehow,  could 

grace 
Whatever  thing  touched  her.   The  knots 

of  sott  lace 
On  her  little  white  shoes,  —  the  gay  cap 

that  half  hid 
Her   womanly   forehead,  —  the    bright 

hair  that  slid 

Like  sunshine   aclown  her  bare   shoul- 
ders, —  the  gauze 
That  rippled  about  her  sweet  arms,  just 

because 
'T  was  Jenny  that  wore  it,  —  the  flower 

in  her  belt,  — 
No  matter  what  color,  'twas  fittest,  you 

felt. 
If   she   sighed,   if   she    smiled,   if  she 

played  with  her  fan, 
A  sort  of  religious  coquettishness  ran 
Through  it  all, —  a  bewitching  and  wil- 

dering  way, 

All  tearfully  tender  and  graciously  gay. 
If  e'er  you  were  foolish  in  word  or  in 

speech, 
The  approval  she  gave  with  her  serious 

eyes 
Would  make  your  own  foolishness  seem 

to  you  wise  ; 
So  all  from  her  magical  presence,  and 

each, 
Went  happy  away :    't  was  her  art  to 

confer 
A  self-love,  that  ended  in  your  loving 

her. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


And   so  she   is   coming  back  here  !   a 

mishap 
To  her  friends,  if  she  have  any  friends, 

one  would  say. 
Well,  well,  she  can't  take  her  old  place 

in  the  lap 
Of  holiday  fortune  :  her  head  must  be 

gray; 
And  those  dazzling  cheeks !     I  would 

just  like  to  see 
How  she  looks,  if  I  could  without  her 

seeing  me. 

To  think  of  the  Jenny  Dunleath  that  I 

knew, 
A  dreary  old  maid  with  nobody  to  love 

her,  — 
Her  hair  silver-white  and  no  roof-tree 

above  her,  — 
One  ought  to   have  pity  upon  her,  — 

't  is  true  ! 
But  I  never  liked  her ;  in  truth,  I  was 

glad 
In  my  own  secret  heart  when  she  came 

to  her  fall  ; 

When  praise  of  her  meekness  was  ring- 
ing the  loudest 
I  always  would  say  she  was  proud  as 

the  proudest ; 
That  meekness  was  only  a  trick  that 

she  had,  — 
She  was  too  proud  to  seem  to  be  proud, 

that  was  all. 

She  stood  up  with  me,  I  was  saying : 

that  day 
Was  the  last  of  her  going  abroad  for 


Was  dancing  with  Hetty,  I  saw  how  it 


I  never  had  seen  her  so  bright  and  so  gay, 
Yet,  spite  of   the  lightness,  I  had  my 

own  fears 
That  all  was  not  well  with  her  :  't  was 

but  her  pride 
Made  her  sing  the  old  songs  when  they 

asked  her  to  sing, 
For  when   it  was   done  with,   and  we 

were  aside, 
A  look  wan  and  weary  came  over  her 

brow, 
And  still  I  can  feel  just  as  if  it  were 

now, 
How  she  slipped  up  and  down  on  my 

finger,  the  ring, 
And  so  hid  her  face  in  my  bosom  and 

cried. 

When    the    fiddlers    were    come,    and 
young  Archibald  Mill 


Nor  was  I  misled  when  she  said  she 

was  ill, 
For  the  dews  were  not  standing  so  thick 

in  the  grass 
As  the  drops  on,  her  cheeks.     So  you 

never  have  heard 
How  she  fell   in  disgrace   with  young 


Archibald  ! 


sejrac 
No? 


I  won't  be  the  first,  then,  to  whisper  a 

word,  — 
Poor  thing!  if  she  only  repent,  let  it  go! 

Let   it  go  !     let  what  go  ?     My  good 

madam,  I  pray, 
Whereof  do  I  stand  here  accused  ?     I 

would  know, — 
I  am   Jenny  Dunleath,  that  you  knew 

long  ago, 
A  dreary  old  maid,  and  unloved,  as  you 

say: 
God  keep  you,  my  sister,  from  knowing 

such  woe ! 

Forty  years  old,  madam,  that  I  agree, 
The  roses  washed  out  of  my  cheeks  by 

the  tears  ; 
And  counting  my  barren  and  desolate 

years 
By  the  bright  little  heads  dropping  over 

your  knee, 
You  look  on  my  sorrow  with  scorn,  it 

appears. 
Well,  smile,  if  you  can,  as  you  hold  up 

in  sight 
Your  matronly  honors,  for  all  men  to 


But  I  cannot  discern,  madam,  what 
there  can  be 

To  move  your  proud  mirth,  in  the  wild- 
ness  of  night 

Falling  round  me  ;  no  hearth  for  my 
coming  alight,  — 

No  rosy-red  cheeks  at  the  windows  for 


My  love  is  my  shame,  —  in  your  love 

you  are  crowned,  — 
But  as  we  are  women,  our  natures  are 

one  ; 
By  need  of  its  nature,  the  dew  and  the 

sun 
Belong  to  the  poorest,  pale  flower  o'  the 

ground. 
And  think  you  that  He  who  created  the 

heart 
Has  struck  it  all  helpless  and  hopeless 

apart 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


From  these  lesser  works  ?     Nay,  I  hold 

He  has  bound 
Our  rights  with  our  needs  in  so  sacred 

a  knot, 

We  cannot  undo  them  with  any  mere  lie  ; 
Nay,  more,  my  proud  lady,  —  the  love 

you  have  got, 

May  belong  to  another  as  dreary  as  I  ! 
You  have  all  the  world's  recognition,  — 

your  bond,  — 
But  have  you  that  better   right,  lying 

beyond  ?  — 
Agreement     with     Conscience  ?  —  that 

sanction  whereby 
You  can  live  in  the  face  of  the  crudest 

scorns  ? 
Aye,  set  your  bare  bosom  against  the 

sharp  thorns 
Of  jealousy,   hatred, — against  all   the 

harms 
Bad    fortune    can    gather,  —  and    say, 

With  these  arms 
About  me,  I  stand  here  to  live  and  to 

die! 
I  take  you  to  keep  for  my  patron  and 

saint, 

And  you  shall  be  bound  by  that  sweet- 
est constraint 
Of  a  liberty  wide  as  the  love  that  you 

give; 

And  so  to  the  glory  of  God  we  will  live, 
Through  health  and  through  sickness, 

dear  lover  and  friend, 
Through  light  and  through  darkness,  — 

through  all,  to  the  end  ! 

Let  it  go !  *  Let  what  go  ?    Make  me 

answer,  I  pray. 
You  were  speaking  just  now  of  some 

terrible  fall,  — 
My  love  for  young  Archibald  Mill,  —  is 

that  all  ? 
I  loved  him  with  all  my  young  heart,  as 

you  say,  — 
Nay,  what  is  more,  madam,  I  love  him 

to-day,  — 
My  cheeks  thin  and  wan,  and  my  hair 

gray  on  gray  ! 
And  so  I  am  bold  to  come  back  to  the 

town, 
In  hope  that  at  last  I  may  lay  my  bones 

down, 
And  have  the  green  grasses  blow  over 

my  face, 
Among  the  old  hills  where  my  love  had 

its  birth ! 
If  love  were  a  trifle,  the  morning  to 

grace, 


And  fade  when  the,  night  came,  why, 
what  were  it  worth  ? 

He  is  married  !  and  I  am  come  hither 

too  late  ? 
Your   vision   misleads   you,  —  so   pray 

you,  untie 
That  knot  from  your  sweet  brow,  —  I 

come  here  to  die, 
And  not  make  a  moan  for  the  chances 

of  fate  ! 

I  know  that  all  love  that  is  true  is  di- 
vine, 
And  when  this  low  incident,  Time,  shall 

have  sped, 
1  know  the  desire  of  my  soul  shall  be 

mine,  — 
That,  weary,  or  wounded,  or  dying,  or 

dead. 
The    end    is    secure,    so    I    bear    the 

estate  — 
Despised  of  the  world's  favored  women 

—  and  wait. 


TRICKSEY'S   RING. 

0  WHAT  a  day  it  was  to  us,  — 
My  wits  were  upside  down, 

When  cousin  Joseph  Nicholas 
Came  visiting  from  town  ! 

His   curls   they  were   so    smooth   and 

bright, 
His  frills  they  were  so  fine, 

1  thought  perhaps  the  stars  that  night 

Would  be  ashamed  to  shine. 

But  when  the   dews  had   touched  the 
grass, 

They  came  out.  large  and  small, 
As  if  our  cousin  Nicholas 

Had  not  been  there  at  all ! 

Our  old  house  never  seemed  to  me 

So  poor  and  mean  a  thing 
As  then,  and  just  because  that  he 

Was  come  a-visiting  ! 

I  never  thought  the  sun  prolonged 

His  light  a  single  whit 
Too   much,  till   then,  nor   thought   he 
wronged 

My  face,  by  kissing  it. 

But  now  I  sought  to  pull  my  dress 
Of  faded  homespun  down, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Because  my  cousin  Nicholas 
Would  see  my  feet  were  brown. 

The  butterflies  —  bright  airy  things  — 

From  off  the  lilac  buds 
I  scared,  for  having  on  their  wings 

The  shadows  of  the  woods. 

I  thought  my  straight  and  jet  black  hair 

Was  almost  a  disgrace, 
Since  Joseph  Nicholas  had  fair 

Smooth  curls  about  his  face. 

I  wished  our  rosy  window  sprays 
Were  laces,  dropping  down. 

That  he  might  think  we  knew  the  ways 
Of  rich  folks  in  the  town. 

I  wished  the  twittering  swallow  had 

A  finer  tune  to  sing, 
Since  such  a  stylish  city  lad 

Was  come  a-visiting. 

I  wished  the  hedges,  as  they  swayed, 

Were  each  a  solid  wall, 
And  that  our  grassy  lane  were  made 

A  market  street  withal. 

I  wished  the  drooping  heads  of  rye, 

Set  fu'l  of  silver  clews, 
Were  silken  tassels  all  to  tie 

The  ribbons  of  his  shoes  ! 

And  when,  by  homely  household  slight, 
They  called  me  Tricksey  True, 

I  thought  my  cheeks  would   blaze,  in 

spite 
Of  all  that  I  could  do. 

Tricksey  !  —  that  name  would  surely  be 

A  shock  to  ears  polite  ; 
In  short  I  thought  that  nothing  we 

Could  say  or  do  was  right. 

For  injured  pride  I  could  have  wept, 

Until  my  heart  and  I 
Fell  musing  how  my  mother  kept 

So  equable  and  high. 

She  did  not  cast  her  eyelids  down, 

Ashamed  of  being  poor  ; 
To  her  a  gay  young  man  from  town, 

Was  no  discomfiture. 

She  reverenced  honor's  sacred  laws 
As  much,  aye  more  than  he, 

And  was  not  put  about  because 
He  had  more  gold  than  she  ; 


But  held  her  house  beneath  a  hand 

As  steady  and  serene, 
As  though  it  were  a  palace,  and 

As  though  she  were  a  queen. 

And  when  she  set  our  silver  cup 

Upon  the  cloth  of  snow, 
For  Nicholas,  I  lifted  up 

My  timid  eyes,  I  know  ; 

And  saw  a  ring,  as  needs  I  must, 
Upon  his  finger  shine  ; 

0  how  I  longed  to  have  it  just 
A  minute"  upon  mine  ! 

1  thought  of  fairy  folk  that  led 
Their  lives  in  sylvan  shades, 

And  brought  fine  things,  as  I  had  read, 
To  little  rustic  maids. 

And  so  I  mused  within  my  heart, 

How  I  would  search  about 
The  fields  and  woodlands,  for  my  part, 

Till  I  should  spy  them  out. 

And  so  when  down  the  western  sky 
The  sun  had  dropped  at  last, 

Right  softly  and  right  cunningly 
From  out  the  house  I  passed. 

It  was  ns  if  awake  I  dreamed, . 

All  Nature  was  so  sweet 
The  small  round  dandelions  seemed 

Like  stars  beneath  my  feet. 

Fresh  greenness  as  I  went  along 
The  grass  did  seem  to  take, 

And  birds  beyond  the  time  of  song 
Kept  singing  for  my  sake. 

The  dew  o'erran  the  lily's  cup. 

The  ground-moss  shone  so  well, 
That  if  the  sky  were  down  or  up, 

Was  hard  for  me  to  tell. 

I  never  felt  my  heart  to  sit 

So  lightly  on  its  throne  ; 
Ah,   who   knew  what  would  come 
of  it, 

With  fairy  folk  alone  ! 

An  hour,  —  another  hour  went  by, 

All  harmless  arts  I  tried, 
And  tried  in  vain,  and  wearily 

My  hopes  within  me  died. 

No  tent  of  moonshine,  arid  no  ring 
Of  dancers  could  I  find,  — 


26 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


The  fairy  rich  folk  and  their  king 
For  once  would  be  unkind  ! 

My  spirit,  nameless  fear  oppressed  ; 

My  courage  went  adrift, 
As  all  out  of  the  low  dark  west 

The  clouds  began  to  lift. 

I  lost  my  way  within  the  wood,  — 
The  path  I  could  not  guess, 

When,  ^Heaven  be  praised,  before  me 

stood 
My  cousin  Nicholas  ! 

Right  tenderly  within  his  arm 
My  shrinking  hand  he  drew  ; 

He  spoke  so  low,   "  these    damps  will 

harm 
My  little  Tricksey  True." 

I  know  not  how  it  was  :  my  shame 
In  new  delight  was  drowned  ; 

His  accent  gave  my  rustic  name 
Almost  a  royal  sound. 

He  bent  his  cheek  against  my  face, — 

He  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"  Why  came  you  to  this  dismal  place  ? 

Tell  me,  my  little  dear  !  " 

Betwixt  the  boughs  that  o'er  us  hung 

The  light  began  to  fall  ; 
His  praises  loosed  my  silent  tongue, — 

At  last  I  told  him  all. 

I  felt  his  lips  my  forehead  touch ; 

I  shook  and  cou'd  not  stand  ; 
The  ring  I  coveted  so  much 

Was  shining  on  my  hand  ! 

We  talked  about  the  little  elves 

And  fairies  of  the  grove, 
And  then  we  talked  about  ourselves, 

And  then  we  talked  of  love. 

'T  was  at  the  ending  of  the  lane,  — 

The  garden  yet  to  pass, 
I  offered  back  his  ring  again 

To  my  good  Nicholas. 

"  Dear  Tricksey,  don't  you  understand, 

You  foolish  little  thing," 
He  said,  "  that  I  must  have  the  hand, 

As  well  as  have  the  ring  ? " 

"To-night — just  now!      I   pray  you 

wait  ! 
The  hand  is  little  worth  !  " 


"  Nay   darling  —  now  !    we  're   at   the 

gate  ! " 
And  so  he  had  them  both  ! 


CRAZY   CHRISTOPHER. 

NEIGHBORED  by  a  maple  wood, 
Dim  and  dusty,  old  and  low  ; 

Thus  our  little  school -house  stood, 
Two  and  twenty  years  ago. 

On  the  roof  of  clapboards,  dried 
Smoothly  in  the  summer  "heat, 

Of  the  hundred  boys  that  tried, 
Never  one  could  keep  his  feet. 

Near  the  door  the  cross-roads  were, 
A  stone's  throw,  perhaps,  away, 

And  to  read  the  sign-board  there, 
Made  a  pastime  every  day. 

He  who  turned  the  index  down, 

So  it  pointed  on  the-sign 
To  the  nearest  market-town, 

Was,  we  thought,  a  painter  fine  : 

And  the  childish  wonder  rose,  • 
As  we  gazed  with  puzzled  looks 

On  the  letters,  good  as  those 
Printed  in  our  spelling-books. 

Near  it  was  a  well,  —  how  deep  ! 

With  its  bucket  warped  and  dry, 
Broken  curb,  and  leaning  sweep, 

And  a  plum-tree  growing  by, 

Which,  with  low  and  tangly  top, 
Made  the  grass  so  bright  and  cool, 

Travelers  would  sometimes  stop, 
For  a  half-hour's  rest  —  in  school, 

Not  an  eye  could  keep  the  place 
Of  the  lesson  then,  —  intent 

Each  to  con  the  stranger's  face, 
And  to  see  the  road  he  went. 

Scattered  are  we  far  and  wide,  — 
Careless,  curious  children  then  ; 

Wanderers  some  and  some  have  died ; 
Some,  thank  God,  are  honest  men. 

But,  as  playmates,  large  or  small, 
Noisy,  thoughtful,  or  demure, 

I  can  see  them,  one  and  all, 
The  great  world  in  miniature. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Common  flowers,  with  common  names, 
Filled  the  woods  and  meadows  round  : 

Dandelions  with  their  flames 

Smoothed  flat  against  the  ground ; 

Mullein  stocks,  with  gray  braids  set 
Full  of  yellow  ;  thistle's  speared ; 

Violets,  purple  near  to  jet  ; 

Crowfoot,  and  the  old-man's-beard. 

And  along  the  dusty  way, 

Thick  as  prints  of  naked  feet, 

Iron  weeds  and  fennel  gay 

Blossomed  in  the  summer  heat. 

Hedges  of  wild  blackberries, 
Pears,  and  honey-locusts  tall, 

Spice-wood,  and  "good  apple-trees," 
Well  enough  we 'knew  them  all. 

But  the  ripest  blackberries, 

Nor  the  mulleins  topped  with  gold, 
Peach  nor  honey-locust  trees. 

Nor  the  flowers,  when  all  are  told, 

Pleased  us  like  the  cabin,  near 

Which  a  silver  river  ran, 
And  where  lived,  for  many  a  year, 

Christopher,  the  crazy  man. 

Hair  as  white  as  snow  he  had, 
Mixing  with  a  beard  that  fell 

Down  his  breast  ;  if  he  were  mad, 
Passed  our  little  wits  to  tell. 

In  his  eyes'  unfathomed  blue 

Uurned  a  ray  so  clear  and  bright, 

Oftentimes  we  said  we  knew 
It  would  shame  the  candlelight. 

Mystic  was  the  life  he  led  ; 

Picking  herbs  in  secret  nooks, — 
Finding,  as  the  old  folks  said, 

"  Tongues    in    trees    and    books    in 
brooks." 

Waking  sometimes  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  solemn  middle  night, 

He  had  seen  his  narrow  room 
Full  of  angels  dressed  in  white  ; 

So  he  said  in  all  good  faith, 
And  one  day  with  tearful  eye, 

Told  us  that  he  heard  old  Death 
Sharpening  his  scythe,  close  by. 

Whether  it  were  prophecy, 
Or  a  dream,  I  cannot  say  ; 


But  good  little  Emily 

Died  the  evening  of  that  day. 

In  the  woods,  where  up  and  down 
We  had  searched,  and  only  seen 

Adder's-tongue,  with  dull,  dead  brown, 
Mottled  with  the  heavy  green ; 

May-apples,  or  wild  birds  sweet, 
Going  through  the  shadows  dim, 

Spirits,  with  white,  noiseless  feet, 
Walked,  he  said,  and  talked  with 
him. 

"  What  is  all  the  toiling  for, 

And  the  spinning  ?  "  he  would  say  ; 

"  See  the  lilies  at  my  door,  — 
Never  dressed  a  queen  as  they. 

"  He  who  gives  the  ravens  food 
For  our  wants  as  well  will  care  ; 

O  my  children  !  He  is  good,  — 
Better  than  your  fathers  are." 

So  he  lived  from  year  to  year, 
Never  toiling,  mystery-clad,  — 

Spirits,  if  they  did  appear, 
Being  all  the  friends  he  had. 

Alternating  seasons  sped, 

And  there  fell  no  night  so  rough, 

But  his  cabin  fire,  he  said, 

Made  it  light  and  warm  enough. 

Soft  and  slow  our  steps  would  be, 

As  the  silver  river  ran, 
Days  when  we  had  been  to  see 

Christopher,  the  crazy  man. 

Soft  and  slow,  to  number  o'er 
The  delights  he  said  he  had  ; 

Wondering  always,  more  and  more, 
Whether  he  were  wise  or  mad. 

On  a  hill-side  next  the  sun, 

Where  the  school-boys  quiet  keep, 

And  to  seed  the  clovers  run, 
He  is  lying,  fast  asleep. 

But  at  last  (to  Heaven  be  praise), 

Gabriel  his  bed  will  find, 
Giving  love  for  lonely  days, 

And  for  visions,  his  right  mind. 

Sometimes,  when  I  think  about 
How  he  lived  among  the  flowers, 

Gently  going  in  and  out, 

With  no  cares  nor  fretful  hours,  — 


28 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


Of  the  deep  serene  of  light, 

In  his  blue,  unfathomed  eyes,  — 

Seems  the  childish  fancy  right, 
That  could  half  believe  him  wise. 


THE  FERRY  OF    GALLAWAY. 

IN  the  stormy  waters  of  Gallaway 
My  boat  had  been  idle  the  livelong  clay, 
Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro, 
For  the  wind  was  high  and  the  tide  was 
low. 

The  tide  was  low  and   the  wind  was 

high, 

And  we  were  heavy,  my  heart  and  I, 
For  not  a  traveler  all  the  day 
Had  crossed  the  ferry  at  Gallaway. 

At  set  o'  th'  sun,  the  clouds  outspread 
Like  wings  of  darkness  overhead, 
When,  out  o'  th'  west,  my  eyes  took 

heed 
Of  a  lady,  riding  at  full  speed. 

The  hoof-strokes  struck  on   the  flinty 

hill 

Like  silver  ringing  on  silver,  till 
I  saw  the  veil  in  her  fair  hand  float, 
And  flutter  a  signal  for  my  boat. 

The  waves  ran  backward  as  if  'ware 
Of  a  presence  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  my  little  craft  leaned  down   and 

lay 

With  her  side  to  th'  sands  o'  th'  Galla- 
way. 

"  Haste,  good  boatman  !  haste  !  "  she 
cried, 

"  And  row  me  over  the  other  side  !  " 

And  she  stript  from  her  ringer  the  shin- 
ing ring, 

And  gave  it  me  for  the  ferrying. 

"  Woe  's  me  !  my  Lady,  I  may  not  go, 
For  the  wind  is  high  and  th'  tide  is  low, 
And    rocks    like    dragons    lie    in    the 

wave,  — 
Slip  back  on  your  finger  the  ring  you 

gave  !  " 

"  Nay,  nay  !  for  the  rocks  will  be  melted 

down, 
And  the  waters,  they  never  will  let  me 

drown, 


And  the  wind  a  pilot  will  prove  to  thee, 
For  my  dying  lover,  he  waits  for  me  !  " 

Then  bridle-ribbon  and  silver  spur 
She  put  in  my  hand,  but  I  answered 

her: 

"  The  wind  is  high  and  the  tide  is  low,  — 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  and  will  not  go  !  " 

Her  face  grew  deadly  white  with  pain, 
And  she  took  her   champing  steed  by 

th'  mane, 

And  bent  his  neck  to  th'  ribbon  and  spur 
That  lay  in  my  hand,  —  but  I  answered 

her: 

"  Though  you  should  proffer  me  twice 

and  thrice 
Of    ring    and    ribbon   and    steed,   the 

price,  — 

The  leave  of  kissing  your  lily-like  hand  ! 
I  never  could  row  you  safe  to  th'  land." 

"  Then  God  have  mercy  ! "  she  faintly 

cried, 

"  For  my  lover  is  dying  the  other  side  ! 
O  cruel,  O  cruellest  Gallaway, 
Be   parted,    and   make   me    a    path,    I 

pray  !  " 

Of  a  sudden,  the  sun  shone  large  and 

bright 

As  if  he  were  staying  away  the  night, 
And  the  rain  on  the  river  fell  as  sweet 
As  the  pitying  tread  of  an  angel's  feet. 

And  spanning  the  water  from  edge  to 

edge 
A    rainbow    stretched    like    a    golden 

bridge, 

And  I  put  the  rein  in  her  hand  so  fair, 
And  she  sat  in  her  saddle,  th'  queen  o' 

th'  air. 

And  over  the  river,  from  edge  to  edge, 
She  rode  on  the  shifting  and  shimmer- 
ing bridge, 

And  landing  safe  on  the  farther  side,  — 
"  Love  is  thy  conqueror,  Death  !  "  she 
cried. 


REVOLUTIONARY    STORY. 

"  GOOD  mother,  what  quaint  legend  are 

you  reading, 
In  that  old  fashioned  book  ? 


BALLADS  AXD  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Beside  your  door  I  've  been  this  half- 
hour  pleading 
All  vainly  for  one  look. 

"About  your  chair' the  little  birds  fly 

bolder 

Than  in  the  woods  they  fly, 
With  heads  dropt  slantwise,  as  if  o'er 

your  shoulder 
They  read  as  they  went  by  ; 

"Each  with   his  glossy  collar  ruffling 
double 

Around  his  neck  so  slim, 
Even  as  with  that  atmosphere  of  trouble, 

Through  which  our  blessings  swim. 

"  Is  it  that  years  throw  on  us  chillier 

shadows, 

The  longer  time  they  run, 
That,  with  your  sad  face  fronting  yon- 
der meadows, 
You  creep  into  the  sun  ? 

"  I  '11  sit   upon   the  ground   and  hear 

your  story." 

Sadly  she  shook  her  head, 
And,  pushing  back  the  thin,  white  veil 

of  glory 
'Twixt  her  and  heaven,  she  said  : 

"  Ah  !  wondering  child,  I  knew  not  of 

your  pleading  ; 

My  thoughts  were  chained,  indeed, 
Upon  my  book,  and  yet  what  you  call 

reading 
I  have  no  skill  to  read. 

"  There  was  a  time  once  when  I  had  a 

lover  : 

Why  look  you  in  such  doubt  ? 
True,  I  am  old  now  —  ninety  years  and 

over  :  " 
A  crumpled  flower  fell  out 

From  'twixt  the  book-leaves.    "  Seventy 

years  they  've  pressed  it : 
'T  was  like  a  living  flame, 
When  he  that  plucked  it,  by  the  pluck- 
ing blessed  it ; " 
I  knew  the  smile  that  came, 

And  flickered  on  her  lips  in  wannish 

splendor, 

Was  lighted  at  that  flower, 
For  even   yet   its   radiance,   faint   and 

tender, 
Reached  to  its  primal  hour. 


"  God  bless  you  !  seventy  years  since  it 

was  gathered  ?  " 
"  Aye,  I  remember  well  ;  " 
And  iii  her  old  hand,  palsy-struck,  and 

withered, 
She  held  it  up  to  smell. 

"And  is   it   true,   as  poets  say,  good 
mother, 

That  love  can  never  die  ? 
And  that  for  all  it  gives  unto  another 

It  grows  the  richer  ?  "     "  Aye, 

"  The  white  wall-brier,  from  spring  till 

summer  closes, 
All  the  great  world  around, 
Hangs  by  its  thorny  arms  to  keep  its 

roses 
From  off  the  low,  black  ground  ; 

"  And  love  is  like  it :  sufferings  but  try 

it ; 

Death  but  evokes  the  might 
That  all,  too  mighty  to  be  thwarted  by 

it, 
Breaks  through  into  the  light." 

"  Then  frosty  age  may  wrap  about   its 

bosom 

The  light  of  fires  long  dead  ?  " 
Kissing  the  piece  of  dust  she  called  a 

blossom, 
She  shut  the  book,  and  said  : 

"  You  see  yon   ash-tree  with  its   thick 

leaves,  blowing 

The  blue  side  out  ?     (Great  Power, 
Keep  its  head  green  !)    My  sweetheart, 

in  the  mowing 
Beneath  it  found  my  flower. 

"  A  mile  off  all  that  day  the  shots  were 

flying, 

And  mothers,  from  the  door, 
Looked  for  the  sons,  who,  on  their  faces 

lyings 
Would  come  home  never  more. 

"  Across  the  battle-field  the  dogs  went 

whining  ; 

I  saw,  from  where  I  stood, 
Horses     with     quivering    flanks,    and 

strained  eyes,  shining 
Like  thin  skins  full  of  blood. 

"  Brave  fellows  we  had  then  :  there  was 

my  neighbor,  — 
The  British  lines  he  saw  j 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    CARY. 


Took  bis  old  scythe  and  ground  it  to  a 

sabre, 
And  mowed  them  down  like  straw  ! 

"  And  there  were  women,  then,  of  giant 

spirit,  — 

Nay,  though  the  blushes  start, 
The  garments  their  degenerate  race  in- 
herit 
Hang  loose  about  the  heart. 

"  Where  was  I,  child  ?  how  is  my  story 

going  ?  " 

"  Why,  where  by  yonder  tree 
With  leaves  so  rough  your  sweetheart, 

in  the  mowing, 
Gathered  your  flower  !  "     "  Ah  me  ! 

"  My  poor  lad  dreamed  not  of  the  red- 
coat devil, 

That,  just  for  pastime,  drew 
To  his  bright  epaulet  his  musket  level, 

And  shot  him  through  and  through. 

"  Beside  him  I  was  kneeling  the  next 

minute  ; 

From  the  red  grass  he  took 
The  shattered  hand  up,  and  the  flower 

was  in  it 
You  saw  within  my  book." 

"He   died."      "Then   you   have   seen 

some  stormy  weather  ? " 
"  Aye,  more  of  foul  than  fair  ; 
And   all    the    snows   we   should    have 

shared  together 
Have  fallen  on  my  hair." 

"  And  has  your  life  been  worth  the  liv- 
ing, mother, 

With  all  its  sorrows  ?  "     "  Aye, 
I  'd  live  it  o'er  again,   were  there  no 

other, 
For  this  one  memory." 

I  answered  soft,  —  I  felt  the  place  was 

holy  — 

One  maxim  stands  approved  : 
"  They  know  the  best  of  life,  however 

lowly, 
Who  ever  have  been  loved." 


THE   DAUGHTER. 

ALACK,  it  is  a  dismal  night  — 
In  gusts  of  thin  and  vapory  light 


The  moonshine  overbloweth  quite 
The  fretful  bosom  of  the  storm, 
That  beats  against,  but  cannot  harm 
The   lady,   whose    chaste   thoughts   do 

charm 

Better  than  pious  fast  or  prayer 
The  evil  spells  and  sprites  of  air  — 
In  sooth,  were  she  in  saintly  care 
Safer  she  could  not  be  than  now 
With   truth's   white    crown   upon    her 

brow  — 

So  sovereign,  innocence,  art  thou. 
Just  in  the  green  top  of  a  hedge 
That  runs  along  a  valley's  edge 
One  star  has  thrust  a  golden  wedge, 
And  all  the  sky  beside  is  drear  — 
It  were  no  cowardice  to  fear 
If  some  belated  traveler  near, 
To  visionary  fancies  born, 
Should  see  upon  the  moor,  forlorn, 
With  spiky  thistle  burs  and  thorn  ; 
The  lovely  lady  silent  go, 
Not  on  a  "  palfrey  white  as  snow," 
But  with  sad  eyes  and  footsteps  slow ; 
And  softly  leading  by  the  hand 
An  old  man  who  has  nearly  spanned, 
With  his  white  hairs,  life's  latest  sand. 
Hone  in  her  faint  heart  newly  thrills 
As  down  a  barren  reach  of  hills 
Before  her  fly  two  whippoorwills  ; 
I>ut  the  gray  owl  keeps  up  his  wail  — 
Mis  feathers  ruffled  in  the  gale, 
Drowning  almost  their  dulcet  tale. 
Often  the  harmless  flock  she  sees 
Lying  white  along  the  grassy  leas, 
Like  lily-bells  weighed  down  with  bees. 
And  now  and  then  the  moonlight  snake 
Curls  up  its  white  folds  for  her  sake, 
Closer  within  the  poison  brake. 
But  still  she  keeps  her  lonesome  way, 
Or  if  she  pauses,  't  is  to  say 
Some  word  of  comfort,  else  to  pray. 
What  doth  the  gentle  lady  here 
Within  a  wood  so  dark  and  drear, 
Nor  hermit's  lodge  nor  castle  near? 
See  in  the  distance  robed  and  crowned 
A  prince  with  all  his  chiefs  around, 
And     like     sweet     light    o'er    sombre 

ground 

A  meek  and  lovely  lady,  there 
Proffering  her  earnest,  piteous  prayer 
For  an  old  man  with  silver  hair. 
But  what  of  evil  he  hath  clone, 
O'erclouding  beauty's  April  sun, 
I  know  not  —  nor  if  lost  or  won, 
The  lady's  pleading,  sweet  and  low  — 
About  her  pilgrimage  of  woe, 
Is  all  that  I  shall  ever  know. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE   POEMS. 


THE   MIGHT   OF   LOVE. 

"  THERE  is  work,  good  man,  for  you  to- 

day !  " 

So  the  wife  of  Jamie  cried, 
"  For  a  ship  at  Garl'ston,  on  Solway, 
Is  beached,  and  her  coal's  to  be  got 


At  the  ebbing  time  of  tide." 

"And,  lassie,  would  you  have  me  start, 

And  make  for  Solway  sands  ? 
You  know  that  I,  for  my  poor  part, 
To  help  me,  have  nor  horse  nor  cart  — 
I  have  only  just  my  hands  !  " 

"  But,  Jamie,  be  not,  till  ye  try, 
Of  honest  chances  balked  ; 
For,  mind  ye,  man,  I  '11  prophesy 
That  while  the  old  ship's  high  and  dry 
Her  master  '11  have  her  calked." 

And  far  and  near  the  men  were  pressed, 
As  .the  wife-saw  in  her  dreams. 

"Aye,"   Jamie    said,    "she    knew   the 
best," 

As  he  went  under  with  the  rest 
To  calk  the  open  seams. 

And  while  the  outward-flowing  tide 

Moaned  like  a  dirge  of  woe, 
The  ship's   mate   from   the   beach-belt 

cried  : 

"  Her  hull  is  heeling  toward  the  side 
Where  the   men   are   at  work  be- 
low !  " 

And  the  cartmen,  wild  and  open-eyed, 

Made  for  the  Solway  sands  — 
Men  heaving  men  like  coals  aside, 
For  now  it  was  the  master  cried  : 

"  Run  for  your  lives,  all  hands  !  " 

Like  dead  leaves  in  the  sudden  swell 

Of  the  storm,  upon  that  shout, 
Brown    hands   went   fluttering    up   and 

fell, 
As,  grazed  by  the  sinking  planks,  pell 

mell 
The  men  came  hurtling  out  ! 

Thank    God,    thank    God,   the    peril's 
past! 

"  No  !  no  !  "  with  blanching  lip, 
The  master  cries.     "  One  man,  the  last, 
Is  caught,  drawn  in,  and  grappled  fast 

Betwixt  the  sands  and  the  ship  !  " 


"  Back,  back,  all  hands  !    Get  what  you 
can  — 

Or  pick,  or  oar,  or  stave." 
This  way  and  that  they  breathless  ran, 
And  came  and  fell  to,  every  man, 

To  dig  him  out  of  his  grave  ! 

"  Too   slow  !   too   slow  !     The   weight 
will  kill  ! 

Up  make  your  hawsers  fast  !  " 
Then  every  man  took  hold  with  a  will  — 
A  long  pull  and  a  strong  pull  —  still 

With  never  a  stir  o'  th'  mast ! 

"  Out  with  the  cargo  !  "     Then  they  go 
At  it  with  might  and  main. 

"  Back  to  the  sands  !  too  slow,  too  slow  ! 

He  's  dying,  dying  !  yet,  heave  ho  ! 
Heave  ho  !  there,  once  again  !  " 

And  now  on  the   beach  at  Garl'ston 

stood 

A  woman  whose  pale  brow  wore 
Its  love  like  a  queenly  crown  ;  and  the 

blood 
Ran  curdled  and  cold  as  she  watched 

the  flood 
That  was  racing  in  to  the  shore. 

On,  on  it  trampled,  stride  by  stride. 

It  was  death  to  stand  and  wait ; 
And  all  that  were  free  threw  picks  aside, 
And  came  up  dripping  out  o'  th'  tide, 

And  left  the  doomed  to  his  fate. 

But  lo  !  the  great  sea  trembling  stands  ; 

Then,  crawling  under  the  ship, 
As  if  for   the   sake    of   the    two  white 

hands 
Reaching  over  the  wild,  wet  sands, 

Slackened  that  terrible  grip. 

"  Come  to  me,  Jamie  !    God  grants  the 

way," 

She  cries,  "for  lovers  to  meet."- 
And  the  sea,  so  cruel,  grew  kind,  they 

say, 
And,  wrapping  him  tenderly  round  with 

spray, 
Laid  him  dead  at  her  feet. 


"  THE  GRACE  WIFE  OF  KEITH." 

No  whit  is  gained,  do  you  say  to  me, 
In   a   hundred   years,  nor   in   two   nor 

three, 
In  wise  things,  nor  in  holy  — 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


No  whit  since  Bacon  trod  his  ways, 
And    William    Shakespeare   wrote   his 

plays  ! 
Aye,  aye}>  the  world  moves  slowly. 

But  here  is  a  lesson,  man,  to  heed  ; 

I  have  marked  the  pages,  open  and  read  ; 

We  are  yet  enough  unloving, 
Given  to  evil  and  prone  to  fall. 
But  the  record  will  show  you,  after  all, 

That  still  the  world  keeps  moving. 

All   in  the    times    of    the   good    King 
James  — 

I   have   marked   the    deeds   and   their 

doers'  names. 
And  over  my  pencil  drawing  — 

One  Geillis  Duncan  standeth  the  first 

For  helping   of  "  anie   kinde   sick  "  ac- 
cursed, 

And  doomed,  without  trial,  to  "  throw- 
ing 

Read  of  her  torturers  given  their  scope 
Of   wrenching    and   binding    her   head 

with  a  rope, 

Of  taunting  her  word  and  her  honor, 
And  of  searching  her  body  sae  pure  and 

fair 
From  the  lady-white  feet  to  the  gouden 

hair 
For  the  wizard's  mark  upon  her  ! 

Of  how  through  fair  coaxings  and  ago- 
nies' dread 

She  came  to  acknowledge  whatever  they 
said, 

And,  lastly,  her  shaken  wits  losing, 

To   prattle   from    nonsense    and    blas- 
phemies wild 

To  the   silly  entreaties  and  tears  of  a 

child, 
And  then  to  the  fatal  accusing. 

First  naming  Euphemia  Macalzean, 
A  lord's  young  daughter,  and  fair  as  a 
.  queen ; 

Then  Agnes,  whose  wisdom  surpassed 

her; 
"  Grace  Wvff  of  Keith,"  so  her  sentence 

lies,' 

"  Adjudged  at  Holyrood  under  the  eyes 
Of  the  King,  her  royal  master." 

Oh,  think  of  this  Grace  wife,  fine  and 

tall, 

With  a  witch's  bridle  tied  to  the  wall  ! 
Her  peril  and  pain  enhancing 


With  owning  the  lie  that  on  Hallowmas 

Eve 

She  with  a  witch  crew  sailed  in  a  sieve 
.  To  Berwick  Church,  for  a  dancing  ! 

Think  of   her   owning,  through   brain- 
sick fright 
How  Geillis   a  Jew's-harp  played  that 

night, 

And  of  Majesty  sending  speedy 
Across  the  border  and  far  away 
For  that  same  Geillis  to  dance  'and  play, 
Of  infernal  news  made  greedy  ! 

Think  of  her  true  tongue  made  to  tell 
How  she  had  raised  a  dog  from  a  well 

To  conjure  a  Lady's  daughters  : 
And  how  she  had  gript  him  neck  and 

skin, 
And,  growling,  thrust  him  down  and  in 

To  his  hiding  under  the  waters  ! 

How    Rob   the   Rower,   so    stout    and 
brave, 

Helped  her  rifle  a  dead  man's  grave. 

And  how,  with  enchantments  arming, 
Husbands  false  she  had  put  in  chains, 
And  gone  to  the  beds  of  women  in  pains 
And  brought  them  through  by  charm- 
ing ! 

Think  of  her  owning  that  out  at  sea 
The  Devil  had  marked  her  on  the  knee, 

And  think  of  the  prelates  round  her 
Twitching  backward  their  old  gray  hairs 
And  bowing  themselves  to  their  a\vi  ul 
prayers 

Before  they  took  her  and  bound  her  ! 

The   world    moves !      Witch-fires,  say 

what  you  will, 
Are  lighted  no  more  on  the  Castle  Hill 

By  the  breath  of  a  crazy  story  ; 
Nor  are  men  riven  at  horses'  tails, 
Or  done  to  death  through  pincered  nails, 

In  the  name  of  God  and  his  glory. 

The  world  moves  on  !  Say  what  you  can, 
No  more  may  a  maiden's  love  for  a  man, 

Into  scorn  and  hatred  turning, 
Wrap  him  in  rosin  stiff  and  stark, 
And  roll  him  along  like  a  log  in  its  bark 

To  the  place  of  fiery  burning. 

And  such  like  things  were  done  in  the 

days 
When  one  Will  Shakespeare  wrote  his 

plays  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


33 


And  when  Luther   had   hurled,  at  the 

Spirit's  call, 

Ipkstand,  Bible,  himself,  and  all 
At  the  head  of  the  Papal  thunder. 


JOHNNY  RIGHT. 

JOHNNY  RIGHT,  his  hand  was  brown, 

And  so  was  his  honest  open  face, 
For   the   sunshine   kissed  him  up  and 

down, 

But  Johnny  counted  all  for  grace  ; 
And  when  he  looked   in  the  glass  at 

night 

He  said  that   brown  was  as  good    as 
white  ! 


green  and 


And  when  Bacon  thought,  for  a  won-  I  For  he  knew  right  well  that  a  man  mu^t 

sow 
Before  he   can  reap,  and  he   sowed 

with  a  will  ; 
And  still   as  he  went  to  his  rye-straw 

bed, 

"  Work  brings  the  sweetest  of  rest,"  he 
said. 

Johnny's  house  was  little  and  low, 
And  his  fare  was  hard  ;  and  that  was 
why 

He  used  to  say,  with  his  cheeks  aglow, 
That  he  must  keep  his  heart  up  nigh  : 

Aye,  keep  it  high,  and  keep  it  light ! 

He  used  to  say  —  wise  Johnny  Right  ! 

He  never  fancied  one  was  two  ; 

But   according    to    his    strength    he 

planned, 
And  oft   to   his  Meggy  would   say  he 

knew 
That   gold   was  gold,  and  sand  was 

sand  ; 
And  that  each  was  good  and  best  in  its 

place, 
For  he  counted  everything  for  grace. 

Now  Meggy  Right  was  Meggy  Wrong, 

For  things  with  her  went  all  awry  ; 
She  always  found  the  day  too  long' 
Or  the  day  too  short,  and  would  mope 

and  sigh  ; 
For,  somehow,  the  time  and  place  that 

were, 
Were  never  the  time  and  place  for  her  ! 

"  O  Johnny,  Johnny  !  "  she  used  to  say, 
If  she  saw  a  cloud  in  the  sky  at  morn, 

"  There  will  be  a  hurricane  to-day  ;  " 
Or,  "  The  rain  will  come  and  drench 
the  corn  !  " 

And  Johnny  would  answer  with  a  smile, 

"  Wait,  dear  Meggy,  wait  for  a  while  !  " 

And  often  before  an  ear  was  lost, 

Or  a  single  hope  of  the  harvest  gone. 
She  would  cry,  "  Suppose  there  should 

fall  a  frost, 
What   should   we  do   then,  John,  O 

John!" 
And  Johnny  would  answer,  rubbing  his 

thumbs, 
"  Wait,  dear  Meggy,  wait  till  it  comes  !  " 

But  when  she  saw  the  first  gray  hair, 
Her  hands  together  she   wrung  and 
wrung, 


A  little  farm  our  Johnny  owned 
Some  pasture-fields,  both  gr 
good, 

A  bit  of  pleasant  garden  ground, 
A  meadow,  and  a  strip  of  wood. 

"  Enough  for  any  man,"  said  John, 

"  To  earn  his  livelihood  upon  !  " 

Two  oxen,  speckled  red  and  white, 
And  a  cow  that  gave  him  a  pail  of 
milk, 

He  combed  and  curried  morn  and  night 
Until  their  coats  were  as  soft  as  silk. 

"Cattle  on  all  the  hills."  said  he, 

"  Could  give  no  more  of  joy  to  me." 

He  never  thought  the  world  was  wrong 
Because   rough   weather    chanced    a 

day  ; 
"  The  night  is  always  hedged  along 

With  daybreak  roses,"  he  would  say  ; 
He  did  not  ask  for  manna,  but  said, 
"  Give  me  but  strength  —  I  will  get  the 
bread !  " 

Kindly  he  took  for  good  and  all 

Whatever  fortune  chanced  to  bring, 
And  he  never  wished  that  spring  were 

fall, 
And  he  never  wished  that  fall  were 

spring  ; 

But  set  the  plough  with  a  joy  akin 
To  the  joy  of  putting  the  sickle  in. 

He  never  stopped  to  sigh  "  Oho  !  " 
Because  of  the  ground  he  needs  must 
till, 


34 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And  cried,  in  her  wicked  and  weak  de- 
spair, 
"  Ah,  for  the  day  when  we  both  were 

young  !  " 

And  Johnny  answered,  kissing  her  brow, 
"  Then  was  then,  Meg  —  now  is  now  !  " 

And  when  he  spectacles  put  on, 

And  read  at  ease  the  paper  through, 
She     whimpered,     "Oh,    hard-hearted 

John, 

It  is  n't  the  way  you  used  to  do  ! " 
And  Johnny,  wiser  than  wiser  men, 
Said,  "  Now  is  now,  Meg  —  then  was 
then  !  " 

So  night  and  clay,  with  this  and  that, 

She  gave  a  bitte%  to  all  the  bliss, 
Now  for  Johnny  to  give  her  a  hat, 
And  now  for  Johnny  to  give  her  a 

kiss, 
Till,  patience  failing,  he   cried,    "  Peg, 

Peg  ! 

You  're  enough  to  turn  a  man's  head, 
Meg!1' 

Oh,  then  she  fell  into  despair  — 

No  coaxing  could  her  temper  mend  ; 

For  her  part  now  she  did  n't  care 
How  soon  her  sad  life  had  an  end. 

And  Johnny,  sneering,  made  reply, 

"  Well,  Meg,  don't  die  before  you  die  !  " 

Then  foolish  Meg  began  to  scold, 
And  call  her  Johnny  ngly  names  ; 

She  wished  the  little  farm  was  sold, 
And  that  she  had  no  household  claims, 

So  that  she   might   go  and   starve   or 
beg, 

And  Johnny  answered,  "  O  Meg,  Meg  ! " 

Ah,  yes,  she  did  — she  did  n't  care  ! 

That  were  a  living  to  prefer  ; 
What  had  she  left  to  save  despair  ? 

A  man  that  did  n't  care  for  her  ! 
Indeed,  in  truth  she  'd  rather  go  ! 
"  Don't,  Meg,"  says  Johnny,  "  don't  say 


She  left  his  stockings  all  undarned, 
She  set  his  supper  for  him  cold  ; 

And  every  day  she  said  she  yearned 
To  have  the  hateful  homestead  sold. 

She  could  n't  live,  and  would  n't  try  ! 

John  only  answered  with  a  sigh. 

Passing  the  tavern  one  cold  night, 
Says  Johnny,  "  I  've  a  mind  to  stop, 


It  looks  so  cheery  and  so  bright 
Within,  and  take  a  little  drop, 
And  then  I  '11  go  straight  home  to  Meg." 
There  was  the  serpent  in  the  egg. 

He  stopped,  alas,  alas  for  John. 

That  careless  step  foredoomed  his  fall. 
Next  year  the  little  farm  was  gone,  — 

Corn  fields  and  cattle,  house  and  all ; 
And  Meggy  learned  too  late,  too  late, 
Her  own  self  had  evoked  her  fate. 


THE     SETTLER'S     CHRISTMAS 
EVE. 

IN  a  patch  of  clearing,  scarcely  more 
Than  his  brawny  double  hands, 

With  woods  behind  and  woods  before, 
The  Settler's  cabin  stands  ; 

A  little,  low,  and  lonesome  shed, 

With  a  roof  of  clapboards  overhead. 

Aye,  low,  so  low  the  wind-warped  eave 

.  Hangs  close  against  the  door  ; 
You   might   almost  stretch   a  bishop's 

sleeve 

From  the  rafter  to  the  floor  ; 
And  the  window  is  not  too  large,  a  whit, 
For  a  lady's  veil  to  curtain  it. 

The  roof-tree's  bent  and  knotty  knees 

By  the  Settler's  axe  are  braced, 
And  the  door-yard  fence  is  three  felled 

trees 

With  their  bare  arms  interlaced  ; 
And   a   grape-vine,  shaggy  and   rough 

and  red, 

Swings    from    the    well-sweep's    high, 
sharp  head. 

And  among  the  stubs,  all  charred  and 

black, 

Away  to  the  distant  huts, 
Winds  in  and  out  the  wagon-track, 

Cut  full  of  zigzag  ruts  : 
And  down   and   down  to  the  sluggish 

pond, 

And   through   and   up  to   the   swamps 
beyond. 

And  do  you  ask  beneath  such  thatch 
What  heart  or  hope  may  be  ? 

Just  pull  the  string  of  the  wooden  latch, 
And  see  what  you  shall  see  : 

A    hearth -stone   broad   and  warm  and 
wide, 

With  master  and  mistress  either  side. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRA  TIVE  POEMS. 


35 


And  "twixt  them,  in  the  radiant  glow, 
Prattling  of  Christmas  joys, 

With  faces  in  a  shining  row, 
Six  children,  girls  and  boys  ; 

And  in  the  cradle  a  head  half-hid 

By  the  shaggy  wolf-skin  coverlid. 

For  the  baby  sleeps  in  the  shaded  light 

As  gently  as  a  lamb, 
And  two  little  stockings,  scarlet  bright, 

Are  hanging  'gainst  the  jamb  ; 
And  the  yellow  cat  lies  all  of  a  curl 
In  the  lap  of  a  two-years'  blue-eyed  girl. 

On  the  dresser,  saved  for  weeks   and 

weeks, 

A  hamper  of  apples  stands, 
And   some   are   red    as   the   children's 

cheeks, 

And  some  are  brown  as  their  hands  ; 
For  cakes  and  apples  must   stead;  you 

see, 
The  rich  man's  costlier  Christmas-tree. 

A  clock  that  looks  like  a  skeleton, 
From  the  corner  ticks  out  bold  ; 

And  that  never  was  such  a  clock  to  run 
You  would  hardly  need  be  told, 

If  you  were  to  see  the  glances  proud 

Drawn   toward    it   when   it  strikes    so 
loud. 

The  Settler's  rifle,  bright  and  brown, 

Hangs  high  on  the  rafter-hooks. 
And  swinging  a  hand's  breadth  lower 

down 

Is  a  modest  shelf  of  books  ; 
Bible    and    Hymn-book,    thumbed    all 

through, 
"  Baxter's  Call,"  and  a  novel  or  two. 

Peter  Wilkins,"  "  The  Bloody  Hand," 
"  The  Sailor's  Bride  and  Bark," 
Jerusalem  and  the  Holy  Land," 

"  The  Travels  of  Lewis  and  Clarke  ;  " 
Some  tracts  :  among  them,  "The  Milk- 
maid's Fall," 

11  Pleasure  Punished,"  and  "  Death  at  a 
Ball." 

A  branch  of  sumach,  shining  bright, 

And  a  stag-horn,  deck  the  wall, 
With  a  string  of  birds'-eggs,  blue  and 

white, 

Beneath.     But  after  all, 
You  will  say  the  six  little  heads  in  a  row 
By  the  hearth-stone  make  the  prettiest 
show. 


The  boldest  urchin  dares  not  stir ; 

But  each  heart,  be  sure,  rebels 
As  the  father  taps  on  the  newspaper 

With  his  brass-bowed  spectacles  ; 
And  knitting-needle  with  needle  clicks 
As  the  mother  waits  for  the  politics. 

He  has  rubbed  the   glass  and  rubbed 

the  bow, 

And  now  is  a  fearful  pause  : 
"Come,  Molly!"  he  says,  "  come  Sue, 

come  Joe, 

And  I  '11  tell  you  of  Santa  Glaus  ! " 
How  the  faces  shine  with  glad  surprise, 
As  if  the  souls  looked  out  of  the  eyes. 

In  a  trice  the  dozen  ruddy  legs 

Are  bare ;  and  speckled  and  brown 
And  blue  and  gray,  from  the  wall-side 

Peg 

The  stockings  dangle  down  ; 
And    the    baby   with   wondering   eyes, 

looks  out 
To  see  what  the  clatter  is  all  about. 

"And  what  will  Santa  Claus  bring?" 

they  tease, 

"  And,  say,  is  he  tall  and  fair  ?" 
While  the  younger  climb  the  good  man's 

knees, 

And  the  elder  scale  his  chair  ; 
And   the   mother  jogs  the  cradle,  and 

tries 
The  charm  of  the  dear  old  lullabies. 

So  happily  the  hours  fly  past, 
'T  is  pity  to  have  them  o'er  ; 

But  the  rusty  weights  of  the  clock,  at 

last 
Are  dragging  near  the  floor ; 

And  the  knitting-needles,  one  and  all, 

Are  stuck  in  the  round,  red  knitting-ball. 

Now,  all  of  a  sudden  the  .father  twirls 

The  empty  apple-plate  ; 
"  Old  Santa  Claus  don't  like  his  girls 

And  boys  to  be  up  so  late  !  " 
He  says,  "  And  I  '11  warrant  our  star- 
faced  cow, 

He 's   waiting    astride   o'  the   chimney 
now." 

Down  the  back  of  his  chair  they  slide, 
They  slide  down  arm  and  knee  : 

"  If  Santa  Claus  is  indeed  outside, 
He  shan't  be  kept  for  me  !  " 

Cry  one  and  all ;  and  away  they  go, 

Hurrying,  flurrying,  six  in  a  row. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


In  the  mother's  eyes  are  happy  tears 
As  she  sees  them  flutter  away  ; 

"  My  man,"  she  says,  "  it  is  sixteen  years 
Since  our  blessed  wedding-day  ;' 

And    I   would  n't   think   it   but  jflst   a 
year 

If  it  was  n't  for  all  these  children  here." 

And  then  they  talk  of  what  they  will 

do 

As  the  years  shall  come  and  go  ; 
Of  schooling  for  little  Molly  and  Sue, 

And  of  land  for  John  and  Joe  ; 
And   Dick   is   so   wise,   and    Dolly  so 

fair, 

"They,"  says  the  mother,  "will  have 
luck  to  spare  !  " 

"  Aye,   aye,    good  wife,    that 's    clear, 
that's  clear  !  " 

Then,  with  eyes  on  the  cradle  bent, 
"  And  what  if  he  in  the  wolf-skin  here 

Turned  out  to  be  President  ? 
Just  think  !     Oh,  would  n't  it  be  fine,  — 
Such  fortune  for  your  boy  and  mine  !  " 

She    stopped — her    heart   with    hope 

elate  — 

And  kissed  the  golden  head  : 
Then,   with   the   brawny   hand   of   her 

mate 

Folded  in  hers,  she  said  : 
"  Walls  as  narrow,  and  a  roof  as  low, 
Have  sheltered  a  President,  you  know." 

And   then  they  said  they  would  work 

and  wait, 

The  good,  sweet- hearted  pair  — 
You  must  have  pulled  the  latch-string 

straight, 

Had  you  in  truth  been  there, 
Feeling  that  you  were  not  by  leave 
At  the  Settler's  hearth  that  Christmas 
Eve. 


THE   OLD   STORY. 

THE  waiting-women  wait  at  her  feet, 

And  the  day  is  fading  into  the  night, 
And  close  at  her  pillow,  and  round  and 

sweet, 

The  red  rose  burns  like  a  lamp  alight, 
And   under   and   over   the   gray   mists 

fold; 

And  down  and  down  from  the  mossy 
eaves, 


And  down  from  the  sycamore's  long 

wild  leaves 
The  slow  raindroppeth  so  cold,  so  cold. 

Ah  !  never  had  sleeper  a  sleep  so  fair  ; 
And  the   waiting    women  that  weep 

around, 
Have  taken  the  combs  from  her  golden 

hair, 
And  it  slideth  over  her  face  to  the 

ground. 
They  have  hidden  the  light   from   he! 

lovely  eyes ; 
And  down  from  the  eaves  where  the 

mosses  grow 

The  rain  is  dripping  so  slow,  so  slow, 
And  the  night  wind  cries  and  cries  and 
cries. 

From  her   hand  they  have  taken  the 

shining  ring, 
They   have    brought    the   linen    her 

shroud  to  make  : 
Oh,  the  lark  she  was  never  so  loath  to 

sing, 
And  the  morn  she  was  never  so  loath 

to  awake  ! 
And   at    their   sewing    they   hear    the 

rain, — 

Drip  drop,  drip-drop  over  the  eaves, 
And   drip-drop   over    the    sycamore 

leaves, 

As*  if  there  would  never  be  sunshine 
again. 

The  mourning  train  to  the  grave  have 

gone, 
And  the  waiting  women  are  here  and 

are  there, 
With  birds  at  the  windows,  and  gleams 

of  the  sun, 
Making  the  chamber  of  death  to  be 

fair. 

And  under  and  over  the  mist  unlaps, 
And  ruby  and  amethyst  burn  through 

the  gray, 
And  driest  bushes  grow  green  with 

spray, 

And  the  dimpled  water  its  glad  hands 
claps. 

The  leaves  of  the  sycamore  dance  and 

wave, 

And  the  mourners  put  off  the  mourn- 
ing shows  ; 

And  over  the  pathway  down  to  the  grave 
The  long  grass  blows  and  blows  and 
blows. 


BALLADS  AATD  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


37 


And  every  drip-drop  rounds  to  a  flower, 
And  love  in  the  heart  of  the  young 

man  springs, 
Ard  the  hands  of  the  maidens  shine 

with  rings, 
As  if  all  life  were  a  festival  hour. 


BALDER'S   WIFE. 

HER  casement  like  a  watchful  eye 

From  the   face  of  the  wall   looks 

down, 
Lashed  round  with  ivy  vines  so  dry, 

And  with  ivy  leaves  so  brown. 
Her  golden  head  in  her  lily  hand 

Like  a  star  in  the  spray  o'  th'  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so 
low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 

Never  so  light  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

Like  some  bright  honey-hearted  rose 

That  the  wild  wind  rudely  mocks, 
She  blooms  from  the  dawn  to  the  clay's 
sweet  close 

Hemmed  in  with  a  world  of  rocks. 
The  livelong  night  she  doth  not  stir, 

But  keeps  at  her  casement  lorn, 
And  the  skirts  of  the  darkness  shine 
with  her 

As  they  shine  with  the  light  o'  the 

morn 
And  all  who  pass  may  hear  her  lay, 

But  let  it  be  what  tune  it  may, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

And  there,  within  that  one-eyed  tower, 

Lashed  round  with  the  ivy  brown. 
She  droops  like  some  unpitied  flower 

That  the  rain-fall  washes  down  : 
The   damp   o'    th'  dew  in   her  golden 
hair, 

Her  cheek  like  the  spray  o'  th'  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro 
She  sings  so   sweet   and   she  sings  so 
low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 

Never  so  glad  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 


AT   REHEARSAL. 

0  COUSIN  Kit  MacDonald, 
I've  been  all  the  day  among 

The  places  and  the  faces 

That  we  knew  when  we  were  young ; 

And,  like  a  "hope  that  shineth  down 
The  shadow  of  its  fears, 

1  found  this  bit  of  color  on 
The  groundwork  of  the  years. 

So  with  words  I  tried  to  paint  it, 
All  so  merry  and  so  bright  — 

And  here,  my  Kit  MacDonald, 
Is  the  picture  light  on  light. 

It  was  night —  the  cows  were  stabled, 
And  the  sheep  were  in  their  fold, 

And  our  garret  had  a  double  roof  — 
Pearl  all  across  the  gold. 

The  winds  were  gay  as  dancers  — 
We  could  hear  them  waltz  and  whirl 

Above  the  roof  of  yellow  pine, 
And  the  other  ro'of  of  pearl. 

We  had  gathered  sticks  from  the  snow- 
drift, 

And  now  that  the  fire  was  lit, 
WTe  made  a  ring  about  the  hearth 

And  watched  for  you,  clear  Kit. 

We  planned  our  pleasant  pastimes, 

But  never  a  game  begun  — 
For  Cousin  Kit  was  the  leader 

Of  all  the  frolic  and  fun. 

With  moss  and  with  bark,  for  his  sake, 
The  fire  we  strove  to  mend  — 

For  the  fore-stick,  blazing  at  middle, 
Was  frosty  at  either  end  ; 

But  after  all  of  the  blowing 

Till  our  cheeks  were  puffed  and  red, 
No  warm  glow  lighted  the  umber 

Of  the  rafters  overhead  ; 

And  after  all  of  the  mending, 
We  could  not  choose  but  see 

That  the  little  low,  square  window 
Was  as  dark  as  dark  could  be. 

The  chill  crept  in  from  our  fingers 
Till  our  hearts  grew  fairly  numb  — 

Oh,  what  if  he  should  n't  see  the  light, 
And  what  if  he  should  n't  come  ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Then  pale-cheeked  little  Annie, 
With  a  hand  behind  her  ear 

Slipt  out  of  the  ring  and  listened 
To  learn  if  his  step  were  near  ; 

And  Philip  followed,  striding 
Through  the  garret  to  and  fro  — 

To  show  us  that  our  Cousin  Kit 
Was  marching  through  the"  snow  ; 

While  Rose  stood  all  a-tiptoe, 
With  face  to  the  window  pressed, 

To  spy  him,  haply,  over  the  hill, 
And  tell  the  news  to  the  rest. 

And  at  last  there  was  shout  and  laugh- 
ter, 

And  the  watching  all  was  done  — 
For  Kit  came  limping  and  whimpering, 

And  the  playing  was  begun. 

"  A  poor  old  man,  good  neighbors, 
Who  has  nearly  lost  his  sight, 

Has  come,"  he  said,  "  to  eat  your  bread, 
And  lodge  by  your  fire  to-night. 

"  I  have  no  wife  nor  children, 
And  the  night  is  bitter  cold  ; 

And  you  see  (he  showed  the  snow  on 

his  hair)  — 
You  see  I  am  very  old  !  " 

"  We  have  seen  your  face  too  often, 

Old  Mr.  Kir,"  we  said  ; 
"  How  comes  it  that  you  're  houseless-— 

And  why  are  you  starved  for  bread  ? 

"  Because  you  were  thriftless  and  lazy, 
And  would  not  plough  nor  sow ; 

And  because  you  drank  at  the  tavern  — 
Ah  !  that  is  why,  you  know  ! 

"  We  don't  give  beggars  lodging, 
And  we  want  our  fire  and  bread  ; 

And  so  good -day,  and  go  your  way, 
Old  Mr.  Kit,"  we  said. 

Then  showing  his  ragged  jacket, 

He  said  that  his  money  was  spent  — 

And  said  he  was  old,  and  the  night  was 

cold, 
And  with  body  doubly  bent 

He  reached  his  empty  hat  to  us, 

And  then  he  wiped  his  eye, 
And   said   he  had  n't   a  friend  in  the 
world 

That  would  give  him  room  to  die. 


"  But  it  was  n't  for  you,"  we  answered, 
"That  our  hearth  to-night  was  lit." 

And    so   we    turned    him    out    o'    the 

house,  — 
O  Kit,  my  Cousin  Kit ! 


As  I  sit  here  painting  over 

The  night,  and  the  fire,  and  the  snow, 
And  all  your  boyish  make-believe 

In  that  garret  rude  and  low, 

My  heart  is  broken  within  me, 
For  my  love  must  needs  allow 

That  you  were  at  the  rehearsal  then 
Of  t/ie  part  you  are  playing  now. 


THE   FISHERMAN'S   WIFE. 

PEACE  !  for  my  brain  is  on  the  rack  ! 
Peace  of  your  idle  prattling,  John  ! 
Ere  peep  o'  daylight  he  was  gone  : 
And  my  thoughts  they  run  as  wild  and 

black 

As  the  clouds  in  the  sky,  from  fear  to  fear. 
Mother  o'  mercy  !  would  he  were  here  — 
Oh  J  would  that  he  only  were  safely 

here  — 
Would  that  I  knew  he  would  ever  come 

back  ! 

Yet  surely  he  will  come  anon  ; 
Let 's  see  —  the  clock  is  almost  on 
The  stroke  o'  ten.     Even  ere  it  strike, 
His  hand  will  be  at  the  latch  belike. 
Set  up  his  chair  in  the  corner,  John, 
Add  a  fresh  log,  and  stir  the  coals  : 
We  can  afford  it,  I  reckon,  yet. 
The  night  is  chilly  and  wild  and  wet, 
And  all  the  fishers'  wives,  poor  souls, 
Must  watch  and  wait !  There  are  other- 
where 

Burdens  heavy  as  mine  to  bear, 
Though  not  so  bitter.     It  was  my  fret 
And  worry  that  sent  him  to  his  boat. 
Here,  Johnny,  come  kneel  down  by  me, 
And  pray  the  best  man  -keep  afloat 
That  ever  trusted  his  life  at  sea ! 
So  :  let  your  pretty  head  be  bowed, 
Like  a  stricken  flower,  upon  my  knee  ; 
And    when   you    come   to    the    sweet, 

sweet  word 

Of  best,  my  little  one  —  my  bird, 
Say  it  over  twice,  and  say  it  loud. 
I  do  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes 
To  our  meek  Master  in  the  skies  ; 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


39 


For  it  was  my  wicked  pride,  alas  ! 
That  brought  me  to  the  heavy  pass 
Of  weary  waiting  and  listening  sad 
To  the  winds  as  they  drearily  drift  and 

drive. 

So  pray  in  your  praying  for  me,  my  lad  ! 
Oh  !  if  he  were  there  in  the  chair  you 

set, 

With  never  a  silvery  fish  in  his  net, 
I  Jd  be  the  happiest  woman  alive  ! 

But  he  will  come  ere  long,  I  know  : 
Here,  Johnny,  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  climb  up  to  my' shoulder  — so  : 
Upon  the  cupboard's  highest  shelf 
You  '11  see  a  bottle  of  good  old  wine  — 
I  pressed  the  berry-juice  myself. 
Ah  !  how  it  sparkles  in  the  light, 
To  make  us  loath  to  break  the  seal ; 
But  though  its  warm  red  life  could  feel, 
We  would  not  spare  it  —  not  to-night ! 

Another  hour  !  and  he  comes  not  yet : 
And  I  hear  the   long  waves  wash  the 

beach, 
With  the  moan  of  a  drowning  man  in 

each, 

And  the  star  of  hope  is  near  to  set. 
The  proudest  lady  in  all  the  land 
That  sits  in  her  chamber  fine  and  high, 
That    sits    in   her   chamber   large  and 

grand, 

I  would  not  envy  to-night  —  not  I  — 
If  I  had  his  cold  wet  locks  in  my  hand, 
To  make  them  warm  and  to  make  them 

dry, 

And  to  comb  them  with  my  fingers  free 
From   the   clinging    sea-weed   and  the 

sand 

Washing  over  them,  it  may  be. 
Ah  !  how  should  I  envy  the  lady  fair 
With   white  arms   hidden   in  folds   of 

lace, 

If  my  dear  old  fisher  were  sitting  there, 
His  pipe  in  his  hand,  and  his  sunbrovvn 

face 

Turning  this  way  and  that  to  me, 
As  I  broiled  the   salmon   and  steeped 

the  tea, 

O  empty  heart !  and  O  empty  chair  ! 
My    boy,   my   Johnny,   say   over   your 

prayer  ; 
And  straight  to  the  words  I  told  you 

keep, 
Till  you  pass  the  best  man  out  on  the 

deep, 
And   then   say   this  :  If   thou  grantest, 

Lord, 


That  he  come  back  alive,  and  with  fi*h 

in  his  net, 

The  church  shall  have  them  for  her  re- 
ward, 

And  we,  of  our  thankfulness,  will  set 
A  day  for  fasting  and  scourge  and  pain. 
Hark  !  hark  to  the  crazy  winds  again  ! 
The  tide  is  high  as  high  can  be, 
The  waters  are  boiling  over  the  bar, 
And  drawing  under  them  near  and  far 
The  low  black  land.     Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
I  can  only  think  of  the  mad,  mad  sea ; 
I  can  only  think,  and  think,  and  think 
How   quickly  a  foundered  boat  would 

sink, 
And  how  soon  the  stoutest  arms  would 

fail. 

'T  is  all  of  my  worry  and  all  of  my  fret, 
For  I  brewed  the  bitter  draught  I  drink  : 
I  teased  for  a  foolish,  flimsy  veil, 
And  teased  and  teased  for  a  spangled 

gown, 

And  to  have  a  holiday  in  the  town. 
There  was  only  just  one  way,  one  way, 
And  he  mended  his  net   and  trimmed 

his  sail, 

And  trusted  his  life  to  the  pitiless  sea, 
My  dear  old  fisher,  for  love  of  me, 
When  a  better  wife  would  have   said 

him  nay ; 

And  so  my  folly  forlorn  I  bewail. 
Hark  !     Midnight !     All  the  hearth   is 

,   dim 

And  cold  ;  but  sure  we  need  not  strive 
To  keep  it  warm  and  bright  for  him  — 
He  never  will  come  back  alive. 
I  hear  the  crack  of  masts  a-strain, 
As  the  mad  winds  rush  madly  on. 
Kneel  down  and  say  yet  once  again 
The  prayer  I  told  you  a  while  ago ; 
And  be  not  loud,  my  boy,  my  John  — 
Nay,  it  befits  us  to  be  low  — 
Nor    yet   so   straight    to   the   wording 

keep, 

As  I  did  give  you  charge  before  : 
The  best  man  ever  was  on  the  deep 
Pray  for  ;  and  say  the  best  twice  o'er. 
But  when    through    our    blessed    Re- 
deemer you  say 
The  sweet  supplication  for  him  that 's 

away, 
That  saints  bring  him  back  to  us  saved 

from  ill, 
Add  this  to  the  Father :  If  so  be  Thy 

will. 

And  I,  lest  again  my  temptation  assail, 
Will  yield  to  my  chast'ning,  and  cover 

up  head 


4o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


"With  blackness  of  darkness,  instead  of 

the  veil 
I  pined  for  in  worry  and  pined  for  in 

fret, 
Till  my  good  man  was  fain  to  be  gone 

with  his  net 
Where    but   the  winds   scolded.     Now 

get  from  your  knees, 
For  I,  from  the   depths   of   contrition, 

have  said 
The  Amen  before  you.     And  we  '11  to 

the  seas  : 

Belike  some  kind  wave  may  be  wash- 
ing ashore, 
With  coils  of  rope  and  salt  sea-weed, 

some  sign 

To  be  as  a  letter  sent  out  of  the  brine 
To  tell  us  the  last  news  —  to  say  if  he 

'struck 
On    the   rocks  and  went  down  —  but 

hush  !  breathe  not,  my  lad. 

0  sweet  Lord   of  Mercy  !  my  brain  is 

gone  mad  ! 
Or  that  was  the  tune  that  he  whistles 

for  luck  ! 
Run  !   run   to  the  door !  open  wide  — 

wider  yet ! 
He   is   there  !  —  he   is   here !  and  my 

arms  are  outspread  ; 

1  am  clasping    and    kissing   his   hands 

rough  and  brown. 
Are  you  living  ?  or  are  you  the  ghost  of 

my  dead  ? 
'T  is  all   of   my  worry  and   all  of  my 

fret; 
Ashamed  in   his  bosom  I  hung   down 

my  head. 
He  has  been  with  his  fishes  to  sell  in 

the  town, 
For  I  see,  snugly  wrapt  in  the  folds  of 

his  net, 
The  hindering  veil   and  the  spangled 

new  gown. 


MAID   AND   MAN. 

ALL  in  the  gay  and  golden  weather, 
Two  fair  travelers,  maid  and  man, 

Sailed  in  a  birchen  boat  together, 

And  sailed   the   way   that   the   river 
ran  : 

The  sun  was  low,  not  set,  and  the  west 

Was  colored  like  a  robin's  breast. 

The  moon  was  moving  sweetly  o'er  them, 
And  her  shadow,  in  the  waves  afloat, 


Moved  softly  on  and  on  before  them 
Like  a  silver  swan,  that   drew  their 

boat ; 

And  they  were  lovers,  and  well  content, 
Sailing  the  way  the  river  went. 

And  these  two  saw  in  her  grassy  bower 
As  they  sailed  the  way  the  river  run, 

A  little,  modest,  slim-necked  flower 
Nodding  and  nodding  up  to  the  sun, 

And  they  made  about  her  a  little  song 

And  sung  it  as  they  sailed  along  : 

"  Pull  down  the  grass  about  your  bosom, 
Nor  look  at  the  sun  in  the  royal  sky, 

JT  is  dangerous,  dangerous,  little  blos- 
som, 
You  are  so  low,  and  he  is  so  high  — 

'T  is  dangerous  nodding  up  to  him, 

He  is  so  bright,  and  you  are  so  dim  !  " 

Sweetly  over,  and  sadly  under, 
They  turned  the  tune  as  they  sailed 

along, 
And  they  did  not  see  the  cloud,  for  a 

wonder, 
Break  in  the  water,  the  shape  of  the 

swan  ; 

Nor  yet,  for  a  wonder,  see  at  all 
The  river  narrowing  toward  the  fall. 

"  Be  warned,  my  beauty  —  't  is  not  the 

fashion 

Of  the  king  to  wed  with  the  waiting- 
maid  — 

Wake  not  from  sleep  his  fiery  passion. 
But   turn   your   red    cheek   into   the 

shade  — 

The  dew  is  a-tremble  to  kiss  your  eyes  — 
And  there  is  but  danger  in  the  skies  !  " 

Close  on  the  precipice  rang  the  ditty, 
But   they  looked   behind   them,  and 

not  before, 
And  went  down   singing   their  doleful 

pity 
About     the    blossom     safe    on   the 

shore  — 
"  There   is   danger,  danger !  frail   one, 

list !  " 
Backward  whirled  in  the  whirling  mist. 


THE   DOUBLE    SKEIN. 

UP  ere  the  throstle  is  out  of  the  thorn, 
Or  the  east  a-blush  with  a  rosy  break, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


For  she  wakens  earlier  now  of  a  morn ; 
Earlier  now  than  she  used  to  wake, 
Such   troublous    meanings   the    sea- 
waves  make. 

She  leans  to  her  distaff  a  weary  brow, 
And  her  cheeks  seem  ready  the  flax 

to  burn, 
And  the  wheel  in  her  hand  turns  heavier 

now  ; 

Heavier  now'  than  it  used  to  turn, 
When  strong   hands  helped  her  the 
bread  to  earn. 

She  lists  to  the  school-boy's  laugh  and 

shout, 
And  her  eyes  have  the  old  expectant 

gleam  ; 
And  she  draws  the  fine  thread  out  and 

out, 
Till  it  drags  her  back  from  her  tender 

dream, 
And  wide  and   homeless   the  world 

doth  seem. 

Over  the  fields  to  the  sands  so  brown, 
And  over  the  sands  to  the   restless 

tides 
She  looks,  and  her   heart  tilts  up  and 

down ; 

Up  and  down  with  the  boat  as  it  rides, 
And  she  cries,  "  God  steady  the  hand 
that  guides  !  " 

She  watches  the  lights  from  the  sea- 
cliffs  go, 

Bedazed  with  a  wonder  of  vague  sur- 
prise, 

For  the  sun  seems  now  to  be  always  low, 
And  never  to  rise  as  he  used  to  rise  — 
The  gracious  glory  of  land  and  skies. 

She  shrinks  from  the  pattered  plash  of 

the  rain, 

For  it  taps  not  now  as  it  used  to  do, 
Like  a  tearful  Spirit  of  Love  at  the  pane, 
And  the  gray   mist  sweeping  across 

the  blue 
Never  so  lightly,  chills  her  through. 

So  spins  she  ever  a  double  skein, 
And  the  thread  on  her  finger  all  eyes 

may  see, 
But  the  other  is  spun  in  her  whirling 

brain 

And  out  of  the  sea-fog  over  the  sea, 
For  still  with  its  treasure  the  heart 
will  be. 


SELFISH   SORROW. 

THE  house  lay  snug  as  a  robin's  nest 

Beneath  its  sheltering  tree, 
And  a  field  of  flowers  was  toward  the 

west, 

And  toward  the  east  the  sea, 
Where  a  belt  of  weedy  and  wet  black 

sand 
Was  always  pushing  in  to  the  land, 

And  with  her  face  away  from  the  sun 
And  toward  the  sea  so  wild, 

The  grandam  sat,  and  spun  and  spun, 
And  never  heeded  the  child, 

So  wistfully  waiting  beside  her  chair, 

More  than  she  heeded  the  bird  of  the 


Fret  and  fret,  and  spin  and  spin, 
With  her  face  the  way  of  the  sea  : 

And  whether  the  tide  were  out  or  in, 
A-sighing,  "  Woe  is  me  !  " 

In  spite  of  the  waiting  and  wistful  eyes 

Pleading  so  sweetly  against  the  sighs. 

And  spin,  spin,  and  fret,  fret, 
And  at  last  the  day  was  done, 

And  the  light  of  the  fire  went  out  and 

met 
The  light  o'  the  setting  sun. 

"  It  will  be  a  stormy  night  —  ah  me  !  " 

Sighed   the    grandam,    looking   at   the 


"  Oh,  no,  it  is  n't  a-going  to  rain  !  " 
Cries  the  dove-eyed  little  girl, 

Pressing  her  cheek  to  the  window-pane 
And  pulling  her  hair  out  of  curl. 

But  the  grandam  answered  with  a  sigh, 

Just  as  she  answered  the  cricket's  cry, 

"  If  it  rains,  let  it  rain  ;  we  shall  not 

drown  ! " 

Says  the  child,  so  glad  and  gay  ; 
"  The  leaves  of  the  aspen  are  blowing 

down  ; 

A  sign  of  fair  weather,  they  say !  " 
And  the  grandam  moaned,  as  if  the  sea 
Were  beating  her   life   out,    "Woe  is 
me  I" 

The  heart  of  the  dove-eyed  little  girl 

Began  in  her  throat  to  rise, 
And  she  says,  pulling  golden  curl  upon 
curl 

All  over  her  face  and  her  eyes, 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


"  I   wish   we  were  out  of  sight  of  the 

sea  !  " 
And  the  grandam  answered,  "  Woe  is 

me  1" 

The  sun  in  a  sudden  darkness  slid, 

The  winds  began  to  plain, 
And  all  the  flowery  field  was  hid 

With  the  cold  gray  mist  and  the  rain. 
Then  knelt  the  child  on  the  hearth  so 

low, 
And  blew  the  embers  all  aglow. 

On  one  small  hand  so  lily  white 

She  propped  her  golden  head, 
And  lying  along  the  rosy  light 
She  took  her  book  and  read  : 
And  the  grandam  heard  her  laughter 

low, 

As  she  rocked  in  the  shadows  to  and 
fro. 

At  length  she  put  her  spectacles  on 
And  drew  the  book  to  her  knee  : 
"  And  does  it  tell,"  she  said,  "  about 

John, 

My  lad,  who  was  lost  at  sea  ? " 
"  Why,  no,"  says  the  child,  turning  face 

about, 
"  'T  is  a  fairy  tale  :  shall  I  read  it  out  ? " 

The  grandam  lowlier  bent  upon 
The  page  as  it  lay  on  her  knee  : 

"  No,  not  if  it  doesn't  tell  about  John," 
She  says,  "  who  was  lost  at  sea." 

And  the  little  girl,  with  a  saddened  face, 

Shut  her  hair  in  the  leaves  to  keep  the 
place. 

And  climbing  up  and  over  the  chair, 
The  way  that  her  sweet  heart  led, 
She  put  one  arm,  so  round  and  fair, 

Like  a  crown,  on  the  old  gray  head. 
"  So,  child,"  says  the  grandam  —  keep- 
ing on 

With  her  thoughts  —  "your  book  does 
n't  tell  about  John  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  it  tells  of  a  fairy  old 
Who  lived  in  a  daffodil  bell, 

And  who  had  a  heart  so  hard  and  cold 
That  she  kept  the  dews  to  sell  ; 

And  when  a  butterfly  wanted  a  drink, 

How  much  did   she  ask   him,  do  you 
think  ? " 

"  O  foolish  child,  I  cannot  tell, 
May  be  a  crown,  or  so." 


"  But  the  fairy  lived  in  a  daffodil  bell, 
And   could   n't    hoard    crowns,   you 

know  !  " 
And     the     grandam     answered  —  her 

thought  joined  on 
To   the   old   thought  —  "  Not   a   word 

about  John  ?  " 

"  But  grandam  "  —  "  Nay,  for    pity's 

sake 

Don't  vex  me  about  your  crown, 
But  say  if  the  ribs  of  a  ship  should  break 

And  the  ship's  crew  all  go  down 
Of  a  night  like  this,  how  long  it  would 

take 
For  a  strong-limbed  lad  to  drown  !  " 

"  But,  grandam  "  —  "  Nay,  have  done," 

she  said, 

"  With  your  fairy  and  her  crown  ! 
Besides,  your  arm  upon  my  head 

Is  heavy  ;  get  you  down  !  " 
"  O  ma'am,  I'm  so  sorry  to  give  you  a 

pain  !  " 

And  the  child  kissed  the  wrinkled  face 
time  and  again. 

And  then  she  told  the  story  through 

Of  the  fairy  of  the  dell, 
Who   sold   God's   blessed   gift   of   the 

dew 

When  it  was  n't  hers  to  sell, 
And  who  shut  the  sweet  light  all  away 
With  her  thick  black  wings,  and  pined 
all  day. 

And  how  at  last  God  struck  her  blind. 

The  grandam  wiped  a  tear, 
And  then  she  said,  "  I  should  n't  mind 

If  you  read  to  me  now,  my  dear  !  " 
And  the  little   girl,  with  a  wondering 

look, 

Slipped  her  golden  hair  from  the  leaves 
of  the  book. 

As  the  grandam  pulled  her  down  to  her 

knee, 

And  pressed  her  close  in  her  arm, 
And  kissing  her,  said,   "  Run  out  and 

see 

If  there  is  n't  a  lull  in  the  storm  ! 
I   think   the   moon,   or  at   least    some 

star, 
Must  shine,  and  the  wind  grows  faint 

and  far." 

Next  day  again  the  grandam  spun, 
And  oh,  how  sweet  were  the  hours  ! 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


43 


For  she  sat  at  the  window  toward  the 

sun, 

And  next  the  field  of  flowers, 
And  never  looked  at  the  long  gray  sea, 
Nor  sighed  for  her  lad  that  was'  lost, 

"  Ah  me  !  " 


THE  EDGE   OF   DOOM. 

HEART-SICK,  homeless,  weak,  and  weary, 

On  the  edge  of  doom  she  stands, 
Fighting  back  the  wily  Tempter 

\Vith  her  trembling  woman's  hands. 
On  her  lip  a  moan  of  pleading, 

In  her  eyes  a  look  of  pain, 
Men  and  women,  men  and  women, 

Shall  her  cry  go  up  in  vain  ? 

On  the  edge  of  doom  and  darkness  — 

Darker,  deeper  than  the  grave  — 
Off  with  pride,  that  devil's  virtue  ! 

While  there  yet  is  time  to  save, 
Clinging  for  her  life,  and  shrinking 

Lower,  lower  from  your  frown  : 
Men  and  women,  men  and  women, 

Will  you,  can  you,  crowd  her  down  ? 

On  that  head,  so  early  faded, 

Pitiless  the  rains  have  beat  ; 
Famine  down  the  pavements  tracked  her 

By  her  bruised  and  bleeding  feet. 
Through  the  years,  sweet  old  Naomi, 

Lead  her  in  the  gleaners'  way  ; 
Boaz,  oh,  command  your  young  men 

To  reproach  her  not,  1  pray. 

Face  to  face,  with  shame  and  insult 

Since  she  drew  her  baby-breath, 
Were  it  strange  to  find  her  knocking 

At  the  cruel  door  of  death  ? 
Were  it  strange  if  she  should  parley 

With  the  great  arch-fiend  of  sin  ? 
Open  wide,  O  gates  of  mercy, 

Wider,  wider  !  —  let  her  in  ! 

Ah  !  my  proud  and  scornful  lady, 

Lapped  in  laces  fair  and  fine, 
But  for  God's  good  grace  and  mercy 

Such  a  fate  as  hers  were  thine. 
Therefore,  breaking  combs  of  honey, 

Breaking  loaves  of  snowy  bread, 
If  she  ask  a  crumb,  I  charge  you 

Give  her  not  a  stone  instead. 

Never  lullaby,  sung  softly, 
Made  her  silken  cradle  stir  ; 


Never  ring  of  gay  young  playmates 
Opened  to  make  room  for  her  ! 

Therefore,  winds,  sing  up  your  sweet- 
est, 
Rocking  lightly  on  the  leaves  ; 

And,  O  reapers,  careless  reapers, 
Let  her  glean  among  your  sheaves  ! 

Never  mother,  by  her  pillow, 

Knelt  and  taught  her  how  to  say, 
Lead  me  not  into  temptation, 

Give  me  daily  bread  this  day. 
Therefore,  reapers,  while  the  cornstalks 

To  your  shining  sickles  lean, 
Drop,  oh  drop  some  golden  handfuls  — 

Let  her  freely  come  and  glean  ! 

Never  mellow  furrows  crumbled 

Softly  to  her  childish  tread  — 
She  but  sowed  in  stony  places, 

And  the  seed  is  choked  and  dead. 
Therefore,  let  her  rest  among  you 

When  the  sunbeams  fiercely  shine  — 
Barley  reapers,  let  her  with  you 

Dip  her  morsel  in  the  wine  ! 

And  entreat  her  not  to  leave  you 

When  the  harvest  week  is  o'er, 
Nor  depart  from  following  after, 

Even  to  the  threshing-floor. 
But  when  stars  through  fields  of  shadow 

Shepherd  in  the  evening  gray, 
Fill  her  veil  with  beaten  measures, 

Send  her  empty  not  away. 

Then  the  city  round  about  her, 

As  she  tnoveth  by,  shall  stir 
As  it  moved  to  meet  Naomi 

Home  from  famine  —  yea,  for  her  ! 
And  the  Lord,  whose  name  is  Mercy, 

Steadfast  by  your  deed  shall  stand, 
And  shall  make  her  even  as  Rachel, 

Even  as  Leah,  to  the  land. 


THE   CHOPPER'S   CHILD. 

A    STORY   FOR  THANKSGIVING   DAY. 

THE  smoke  of  the  Indian  Summer 

Darkened  and  doubled  the  rills, 
And  the  ripe  corn,  like  a  sunset, 

Shimmered  along  the  hills  ; 
Like  a  gracious  glowing  sunset, 

Interlaced  with  the  rainbow  light 
Of  vanishing  wings  a-trailing 

And  trembling  out  of  sight ; 


44 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


As,  with  the  brier-buds  gleaming 

In  her  darling,  dimpled  hands, 
Toddling  slow  adown  the  sheep-paths 

Uf  the  yellow  stubble-lands  — 
Her  sweet  eyes  full  of  the  shadows 

Of  the  woodland,  darkly  brown  — 
Came  the  chopper's  little  daughter, 

In  her  simple  hood  and  gown. 

Behind  her  streamed  the  splendors 

Of  the  oaks  and  elms  so  grand, 
Before  her  gleamed  the  gardens 

Of  the  rich  man  of  the  land  ; 
Gardens  about  whose  gateways 

The  gloomy  ivy  swayed, 
Setting  all  her  heart  a-tremble 

As  she  struck  within  their  shade. 

Now  the  chopper's  lowly  cabin 

It  lay  nestled  in  the  wood, 
And  the  dwelling  of  the  rich  man 

By  the  open  highway  stood, 
With  its  pleasant  porches  facing 

All  against  the  morning  hills, 
And  each  separate  window  shining 

Like  a  bed  of  daffodils. 

Up  above  the  tallest  poplars 

In  its  stateliness  it  rose, 
With  its  carved  and  curious  gables, 

And  its  marble  porticoes  ; 
But  she  did  not  see  the  grandeur, 

And  she  thought  her  father's  oaks 
Were  finer  than  the  cedars 

Clipt  so  close  along  the  walks. 

So,  in  that  full  confiding 

The  unworldly  only  know, 
Through  the  gateway,  down  the  garden, 

Up  the  marble  portico, 
Her  bare  feet  brown  as  bees'  wings, 

And  her  hands  of  brier-buds  full, 
On,  along  the  fleecy  crimson 

Of  the  carpets  of  dyed  wool, 

With  a  modest  glance  uplifted 

Through  the  lashes  drooping  down, 
Came  the  chopper's  little  daughter, 

In  her  simple  hood  and  gown  ; 
Still  and  steady,  like  a  shadow 

Sliding  inward  from  the  wood, 
Till  before  the  lady-mistress 

Of  the  house,  at  last,  she  stood. 

Oh,  as  sweet  as  summer  sunshine 
Was  that  lady-dame  to  see, 

With  the  chopper's  little  daughter, 
Like  a  shadow  at  her  knee  ! 


Oh,  green  as  leaves  of  clover 

Were  the  broideries  of  Lcr  tn;in, 

And  her  hand  it  shone  with  jewels 
Like  a  lily  with  the  rain. 

And  the  priest  before  the  altar, 

As  she  swam  along  the  aisle, 
Reading  out  the  sacred  lesson, 

Read  it  consciously,  the  while  ; 
The  long  roll  of  the  organ 

Drew  across  a  silken  stir, 
And  when  he  named  a  saint,  it  was 

As  if  he  named  but  her. 

But  the  chopper's  child  undazzled    ' 

In  her  lady-presence  stood  — 
(  She  was  born  amid  the  splendors 

Of  the  glorious  autumn  wood)  — 
And  so  sweetly  and  serenely 

Met  the  cold  and  careless  face, 
Her  own  alive  with  blushes, 

E'en  as  one  who  gives  a  grace  ; 

As  she  said,  the  accents  falling 

In  a  pretty  childish  way  : 
"  To-morrow,  then  to  morrow 

Will  have  brought  Thanksgiving  day 
And  my  mother  will  be  happy, 

And  be  honored,  so  she  said, 
To  have  the  landlord's  lady 

Taste  her  honey  and  her  bread." 

Then  slowly  spake  the  lady, 

As  disdainfully  she  smiled, 
"  Live  you  not  in  yonder  cabin  ? 

Are  you  not  the' chopper's  child  ? 
And  your  foolish  mother  bids  me 

To  Thanksgiving,  do  you  say  ? 
What  is  it,  little  starveling, 

That  you  give  your  thanks  for,  pray  ? 

One  bashful  moment's  silence  — 

Then  hushing  up  her  pain, 
And  sweetness  growing  out  of  it 

As  the  rose  does  out  of  rain  — 
She  stript  the  woolen  kerchief 

From  off  her  shining  head, 
As  one  might  strip  the  outer  husk 

From  the  golden  ear,  and  said  : 

"  What  have  we  to  give  thanks  for  ? 

Why,  just  for  daily  bread  !  " 
And  then,  with  all  her  little  pride 

A-blushing  out  so  red  — 
"  Perhaps,  too,  that  the  sunshine 

Can  come  and  lie  on'our  floor, 
With  none  of  your  icy  columns 

To  shut  it  from  the  door  !  " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


What  have  we  to  give  thanks  for  ?" 

And  a  smile  illumed  her  tears, 
As  a  star  the  broken  vapors, 

When  it  suddenly  appears  ; 
And  she  answered,  all  her  bosom 

Throbbing  up  and  down  so  fast : 
"  Because  my  poor  sick  brother 

Is  asleep  at  last,  at  last. 

Asleep  beneath  the  daisies  : 

But  when  the  drenching  rain 
Has  put  them  out,  we  know  the  dew 

Will  light  them  up  again  ; 
And  we  make  and  keep  Thanksgiving 

With  the  best  the  house  affords, 
Since,  if  we  live,  or  if  we  die, 

We  know  we  are  the  Lord's : 

That  out  His  hands  of  mercy 

Not  the  least  of  us  can  fall ; 
But  we  have  ten  thousand  blessings, 

And  I  cannot  name  them  all  ! 
Oh,  see  them  yourself,  good  madam  — 

I  will  come  and  show  you  the  way  — 
After  the  morrow,  the  morrow  again 

Will  be  the  great,  glad  day." 

;And,  tucking  up  her  tresses 

In  the  kerchief  of  gray  wool, 
Where  they  gleamed  like  golden  wood- 
lights 

In  the  autumn  mists  so  dull, 
She  crossed  the  crimsoii  carpets, 

With  her  rose-buds  in  her  hands, 
And,  climbing  up  the  sheep-paths 

Of  the  yellow  stubble-lands, 

Passed    the    marsh   wherein    the    star- 
lings 

Shut  so  close  their  horny  bills, 
And  lighted  with  her  loveliness 

The  gateway  of  the  hills 
Oh,  the  eagle  has  the  sunshine, 

And  his  way  is  grand  and  still  ; 
But  the  lark  can  turn  the  cloud  into 

A  temple  when  she  will ! 

That  evening,  when  the  corn  fields 

Had  lost  the  rainbow  light 
Of  vanishing  wings  a-trailing 

And  trembling  out  of  sight, 
Apart  from  her  great  possessions" 

And  from  all  the  world  apart, 
Knelt  the  lady-wife  and  mistress 

Of  the  rich  man's  house  and  heart. 

Knelt  she,  all  her  spirit  broken, 

And  the  shame  she  could  not  speak. 


Burning  out  upon  the 

From  the  fires  upon  her  cheek  ; 
And  prayed  the  Lord  of  ther 

To  make  her  meek  and  mild, 
And  as  faithful  in  Thanksgiving 

As  the  chopper's  little  child. 


THE  DEAD-HOUSE. 

IN  the  dead  of  night  to  the  Dead-house, 

She  cometh  —  a  maiden  fair  — 
By  the  feet  so  slight  and  slender, 
By  the  hand  so  white  and  tender, 
And  by  the  silken  and  shining  lengths 

Of  the  girlish,  golden  hair, 
Dragging  under  and  over 

The  arms  of  the  men  that  bear. 
Oh  !  make  of  your  pity  a  cover, 

And  softly,  silently  bear  : 
Perhaps  for  the  sake  of  a  lover, 

Loved  all  too  well,  she  is  there  ! 

In  the  dead  of  night  to  the  Dead-house ! 

So  lovely  and  so  lorn  — 
Straighten  the  tangled  tresses, 
They  have  known  a  mother's  kisses, 
And  hide  with  their  shining  veil  of  grace 
The  sightless  eyes  and  the  pale,  sad 

face 

From  men  and  women's  scorn. 
Aye,  veil  the  poor  face  over, 
And  softly,  silently  bear  : 
Perhaps  for  the  sake  of  a  lover, 
Loved  all  too  well,  she  is  there. 

In  the  dead  of  night  to  the  Dead-house  ! 

Bear  her  in  from  the  street : 
The   watch    at    his   watching   found 

her  — 

Ah  !  say  it  low  nor  wound  her, 
For  though  the  heart  in  the  bo*om 

Has  ceased  to  throb  and  beat, 
Speak   low,  when   you    say   how   they 

found  her 

Buried  alive  in  the  sleet. 
Speak  low,  and  make  her  a  cover 

All  out  of  her  shining  hair  : 
Perhaps  for  the  sake  of  a  lover, 
Loved  all  to  well,  she  was  there. 

Desolate  left  in  the  Dead-house  ! 
Your  cruel  judgments  spare, 
Ye  know  not  why  she  is  there  : 

Be  slow  to  pronounce  your  "  viene" 

Remember  the  Magdalene  ; 

Be  slow  with  your  harsh  award  — 


46 


7 HE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Remember  the  Magdalene ; 

Remember  the  clear,  dear  Lord  ! 
Holy,  and  high  above  her, 

By  the  length  of  her  sin  and  shame, 
He  could  take  her  and  love  her  — 

Praise  to  His  precious  name. 

With  oil  of  gentle  mercy 

The  tide  of  your  censure  stem  ; 
Have  ye  no  scarlet  sinning  ? 
No  need  for  yourselves  of  winning 
Those  sweetest  words  man  ever  spake 
In  all  the  world  for  pity's  sake, 
Those   words   the   hardest    heart    that 

break : 
"  Neither  do  I  condemn." 

In  the  light  of  morn  to  the  Dead-house 

There  cometh  a  man  so  old  — 
"My  child!"  he  cries;    "I  will  wake 

her; 

Close,  close  in  my  arms  I  will  take  her, 
And  bear  her  back  on  my  shoulder, 

My  poor  stray  lamb  to  the  fold  ! 
How  came  she  in  this  dreadful  place  ?  " 
And  he  stoops  and  puts  away  from  the 

face 

The  queenly  cover  of  gold. 
"No,   no!"    he  says,   "it   is  not    my 

girl  !  • 

As  he  lifts  the  tresses  curl  by  curl, 
"  She  was  never  so  pale  and  cold  !  " 

In  the  light  of  morn  in  the  Dead-house, 

He  prattleth  like  a  child  — 
*'  No,  no  ! "  he  says,  "  it  cannot  be  — 
Her  sweet  eyes  would  have   answered 
me, 

And   her   sweet    mouth    must    have 

smiled  — 

She  would  have  asked  for  her  mother, 
And  for  the  good  little  brother 

That  thought  it  pastime  and  pleasure 
To  be  up  and  at  work  for  her, 
And  she  cloth  not  smile  nor  stir." 
And  then,  with  his  arms  outspread 
From  the  slender  feet  to  the  head, 

He  taketh  the  fearful  measure. 
"  No,  no  !  "  he  says,  "  she  would  wake 

and  smile  "  — 
But  he  listens  breathless  all  the  while 

If  haply  the  heart  may  beat, 
And  tenderly  with  trembling  hands 
Out  of  the  shining  silken  bands 

Combs  the  frozen  sleet. 

In  the  light  of  morn  in  the  Dead-house, 
He  prattleth  on  and  on  — 


"  As  like  her  mother's  as  can  be 
These  two  white  hands ;  but  if  't  were 
she 

Who  out  of  our  house  is  gone, 
I  must  have  found  here  by  her  side 
He  to  whom  she  was  promised  bride  : 
And  yet  this  way  along  the  sleet 
We  tracked  the  little  wandering  feet. 
And  yesterday,  her  mother  said, 
When  she  waked  and  called  her  from 

her  bed, 
She    looked    like    one    a    dream    had 

crazed — 
Her  mother  thought  the  sunshine  dazed, 

And  thought  it  childish  passion 
That  made  her,  when  she  knelt  to  pray, 
Falter,  and  be  afraid  to  say, 

Lord,  keep  us  from  temptation. 
And  I  bethink,  the  mother  said  — 
(What    puts    such    thoughts    into   my 
head?) 

That  never  once  the  live-long  day 

Her  darling  sung  the  old  love-lay 
That 't  was  her  use  to  sing  and  hum 

As  hums  the  bee  to  the  blossom  ; 
And  that  when  night  was  nearly  come 

She  took  from  its  place  in  her  bosom 
The  picture  worn  and  cherished  long, 
And  as  if  that  had  done  her  wrong, 

Or,  as  if  in  sudden  ire, 
And  it  were  something  to  abhor, 

She  laid  it,  not  as  she  used  at  night 
Among  the  rose-leaves  in  the  drawer, 

But  out  of  her  bosom  and  out  of  sight 
With  its  face  against  the  fire. 

"  But  why  should  I  torment  my  heart 
(And    the  tear    from   his   cheek    he 

dashes) 
As  if  such  thoughts  had  any  part 

With  these  pale,  piteous  ashes?" 
He  opens  the  lids,  and   the   eyes  are 

blue, 
"  But  these  are  frost  and  my  child's  were 

dew  ! 

No,  no  !  it  is  not  my  poor  lost  girl." 
And   he    takes   the   tresses    curl   by 

curl 

And  tenderly  feels  them  over. 
"  If  it  were  she,  the  watch  I  know 
Would  never  have  dragged  her  out 

of  the  snow  — 

Why,  where  should  be  her  lover  !  " 
And  down  the  face  and  bosom  fail- 
He    spread    the    long   loose    flood   of 

hair, 

And  left  her  in  the  Dead-house  there, 
All  under  her  queenly  cover. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


47 


ONE  MOMENT. 

ONE  moment,  to  strictly  run  out  by  the 

sands  — 
Time,  in  the  old  way  just  to  say  the 

old  saying  — 
Enough  for  your  giving  —  enough  for 

my  playing 
The  hope  of  a  life  in  your  sinless  white 

hands  — 
To  call  you  my  sweetheart,  and  ask 

you  to  be 
My  fond  little  fairy,  and  live  by  the 

sea! 

Five  minutes  —  ten  —  twenty  !  but  little 

to  spare, 
Yet  enough  to  repeat,  in  the  homely 

old  fashion, 
A  story  of  true  love,  unfrenzied  with 

passion  — 
To   say,    "  Will   you   make   my  rough 

weather  be  fair, 

And  give  me  each  day  your  red  cheek 
to  be  kissed  ? 


My  dear  one,  my  darling,  my  rose  of 

the  mist  ?  " 


An 


half    hour !  —  would    I    dare    say 

longer  yet  — 
And  the  time  (is  so  much  you  will 

yield  to  my  wishes). 
When    luck-thriven   fishermen   draw 

their  last  fishes, 
Whose   silver  sleek  sides   in   the  sea 

dripping  net. 
And  speckles  of  red  gold,  and  scales 

thin  and  crisp, 
Through  the  fog-drizzle  shine  like  a 

Will-o'-the-wisp. 

An  hour  !  nay  more  —  until   star  after 
star 

Takes  his  watch  while  the  west- 
wind  through  shadows  thick  fall- 
ing, 

Holds  parley,  in  moans,  with  the  tide, 

outward  crawling, 

And  licking  the   long  shaggy  black  of 
the  bar, 

As  if  in  lamenting  some  ship  gone 
aground, 

Or  sailors,  love-lorn,  in  the  dead 
waters  drowned. 

Two  hours  !  and  not  a  hair's  breadth 
from  the  grace 


Of  your  innocent  trust  would  I  any 

more  vary 
Than  rob  of  her  lilies   the   virginal 

Mary ; 
But  just  in  my  two  hands  would  hold 

your  fair  face, 
And  look  in  your  dove-eyes,  and  ask 

you  to  be 
My  good  little  housewife,  and  live  by 

the  sea ! 

Till  midnight  !  till  morning  !  old  Time 
has  fleet  wings, 

And  the  space  will  be  brief,  so  my 
courage  to  steady, 

As  say,  "  Who  weds  me  may  not  be  a 

fine  lady 

WTith  silk  gowns   to  wear,  and  twenty 
gold  rings, 

But  with  only  a  nest  in  the  rocks,  leav- 
ing me 

Her  praises  to  sing  as  I  sail  on  the 
sea." 

I  would  buy  her  a  wheel,  and  some  flax- 
wisps,  and  wool, 

So  when  the  wild  gusts  of  the  winter 
were  blowing, 

And  poor  little  bird-nest  half  hid  in 

the  snowing, 

The  time  never  need  to  be  dreary  nor 
dull  — 

But  smiling  the  brighter,  the  darker 
the  day, 

Her  sunshine  would  scatter  the  shad- 
ows away. 

At  eve,  when  the  mist,  like  a  shawl  of 
fine  lace, 

Wrapt  her  softly  about,  like  a  queen 
in  her  splendor, 

She   still    would    sing  over  old  sea- 
songs,  so  tender, 

To  keep  her  in   mind   of  her   sailor's 
brown  face  — 

Of  his  distance  and  danger,  and  make 
her  to  be 

His  good  little  housewife,  content  by 
the  sea. 

Believe     me,    sweet    sweetheart,    they 

have  but  hard  lives 
Who  go  down  to  sea  in  great  ships, 

never  knowing 
How    soon    cruel    waves   o'er   their 

heads  will  be  flowing, 
And  fatherless  children,  and  true-hearted 
wives, 


48 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


The  place   of   their  dead  never  see, 

never  know  — 
But  the  nest  waits,  my  darling,  ah  ! 

say,  will  you  go  ? 


THE   FLAX-BEATER. 

"  Now  give  me  your  burden,  if  burden 

you  bear," 

So  the  flax-beater  said, 
"  And  press  out  and  wring  out  the  rain 

from  your  hair, 
And  come  into  my  shed ; 
The  sweetest  sweet-milk  you  shall  have 

for  your  fare, 

And  the  whitest  white-bread, 
With  a  sheaf  of  the  goldenest  straw  for 

your  bed  ; 
Then  give  me  your  burden,  if  burden 

you  bear, 
And  come  into  my  shed  ! 

"  I  make  bold  to  press  my  poor  lodging 

and  fare, 

For  the  wood-path  is  lone, 
Aye,    lonely  and   dark   as  a   dungeon- 
house  stair, 

And  jagged  with  stone. 
Sheer   down   the   wild  hills,  and   with 

thorn  brush  o'ergrown, 
I  have  lost  it  myself  in  despite  of  my 

care, 
Though  I  'm  used  to  roifgh  ways  and 

have  courage  to  spare  ; 
And  then,  my  good  friend,  if  the  truth 

must  be  known, 
The  huts  of  the  settlers  that  stand  here 

and  there 
Are  as  rude  as  my  own. 

"  The  night  will  be  black  when  the  day 

shall  have  gone  ; 
'T  is  the  old  of  the  moon, 
And  the  winds  will  blow  stiff,  and  more 

stiffly  right  on, 
By  the  cry  of  the  loon  ; 
Those  terrible  storm-harps,  the  oaks,  are 

in  tune, 
That   creaking   will   fall  to  a  crashing 

anon  ; 
For  the  sake  of  your  pitiful,  poor  little 

one, 
You  cannot,  good  woman,  have  lodging 

too  soon  ] 


"  Hark  !    thunder  !    and   see   how   the 

waters  are  piled, 
Cloud  on  cloud,  overhead  ; 
Mayhap  I  'm  too  bold,  but  I  once  had  a 

child  — 

Sweet  lady,  she  's  dead  — 
The  daffodil  growing  so  bright  and  so 

wild 

At  the  door  of  my  shed 
Is  not  yet  so  bright  as  her  glad  golden 

head, 
And  her  smile  !  ah,  if  you  could  have 

seen  how  she  smiled  ! 
But  what  need  of  praises  —  you  too  have 

a  child  !  " 
So  the  flax-beater  said. 

"  Ah,  the  soft  summer-days,  they  were 

all  just  as  one, 
And  how  swiftly  they  sped  ; 

When  the  daisy  scarge  bent  to  her  fairy- 
like  tread, 

And  the  wife,  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  in 
the  sun, 

Sang  sea-songs  and  ditties  of  true-love 

that  run 
All  as  smooth  as  her  thread  ; 

When  her  darling  was  gone  then  the 
singing  was  done, 

And  she  sewed  her  a  shroud  of  the  flax 

she  had  spun, 
And  a  cap  for  her  head. 

"  See,  that  cloud  running  over  the  last 

little  star, 

Like  a  great  inky  blot, 
And  now,  in  the  low  river  hollows  afar, 
You  can  hear  the  wild  waters  through 

driftwood  and  bar, 
Boil  up  like  a  pot  ; 
It  is  as  if  the  wide  world  was  at  war, 
So  give  me  your  burden,  if  such  you 

have  got, 
And  come  to  my  shed,  for  you  must,  will 

or  not." 

"  Get  gone  you  old  man  !  I  've  no  bur- 
den to  bear ; 
You  at  best  are  misled  ! 
And  as  for  the  rain,  let  it  fall  on  my  hair  ; 

Is  that  so  much  to  dread, 
That  I  should  be  begging  for  lodging 

and  fare 

At  a  flax-beater's  shed  ? 
Get  gone,  and  have  done  with  your  in- 
solent stare, 

And  keep  your  gold  straw,  if  you  leave 
me  instead 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


49 


But  the  ground  for  my  bed  !  " 
'T  was   thus  the   strange  woman  with 

wringing  wet  hair 
In  her  wretchedness  said. 

•*'  No  burden  !  and  what  is  it  then  that 

I  trace 

Wrapt  so  close  in  your  shawl  ? 
I  remember  the  look  of  the  dear  little 

face, 
And  remember   the   look  of  the  head, 

round  and  small, 
That  I  saw  once  for  all 
Under  thin,  filmy  folds,  like  the  folds  of 

your  shawl  ! " 
"  Why,    then,    't  is  my   bride-veil   and 

gown,  have  the  grace 
To  believe  —  they  are    rolled  in   jny 

kerchief  of  lace  ; 
And  that,  old  man,  is  all  ! " 

"  Woman  !  woman  !  bethink  what  it  is 

that  you  say, 
Lest  it  bring  you  to  harm. 

A  bride-veil  and  gown  are  not  hid  such 

a  way 
As  the  thing  in  your  arm  !  " 

"  My  good  man,  my  dear  man,  remem- 
ber, I  pray, 

What  trifles  were  sacred  your  own  wed- 
ding day, 

And  leave  me  my  bride-veil  and  gown 

hid  away 
From  the  fret  of  the  storm. 

Oh,  soften  your  heart  to  accept  what  I 
say  — 

It  is  these,  only  these  that  I  have  in  my 
arm  !  " 

"  Only  these  !  just  a  touch  of  this  thing, 

and  I  know 
That  my  thoughts  were  misled  ! 

But  why  turn  you  pale  ?  and  why  trem- 
ble you  so  ? 
If  it  be  as  you  said, 

You  have  nothing  from  me  nor  from 
mortal  to  dread." 

Her  voice  fell  to  sobs,  and  she  hung 
down  her  head, 

Hugged  his   knees,    kissed   his   hands, 
kissed  his  feet  as  she  saicl  : 

"  Now  spare  me,  oh  spare  me  this  death- 
dealing  blow, 

And  give  me  your  cold,  coldest  pity,  in- 
stead ; 

I  was  crazed,  and  I  spake  you  a  lie  in 

my  woe  ; 

I  am  bearing  my  dead, 
4 


To  bury  it  out  of  my  sight,  you  must 

know  ; 

But,  good  and  sweet  sir,  I  am  wed, 
I  am  wed  !  " 

"  Unswathe  you  the  corpse,  then,  and 

give  it  to  me, 
If  that  all  be  so  well  ; 
But  what  are  these  slender  blue  marks 

that  I  see 

At  the  throat  ?     Can  you  tell  ? " 
"  The  kisses  I  gave  it  as  it  lay  on  my 

knee  ! " 
"  And  dare  you,  false  woman,  to  lie  so 

to  me  ? " 

"  Why,  then  't  was  the  spell 
And  work  of  a  demon  that  came  out  of 

hell." 
"  Now  God   give  you  mercy,  if  mercy 

there  be, 

For  the  angels  that  fell, 
Because,  if  there  came  up  a  demon  from 

hell, 
That  demon  was  thee  !  " 


COTTAGE  AND    HALL. 

WITH  eyes  to  her  sewing-work  dropped 
.    down, 

And  with  hair  in  a  tangled  shower, 
And  with  roses  kissed  by  the  sun,  so 
brown 

Young  Janey  snt  in  her  bower  — 
A  garden  nook  with  work  and  book  ; 
And  the  bars  that  crossed  her  girlish 
gown 

Were  as  blue  as  the  flaxen  flower. 
And  her  little  heart  it  beat  and  beat, 

Till  the  work  shook  on  her  knee, 
For  the  golden  combs  are  not  so  sweet 

To  the  honey-fasting  bee 
As  to  her  her  thoughts  of  Alexis. 

And  across  a  good  green  piece  of  wood, 

And  across  a  field  of  flowers, 
A  modest,  lowly  house  there  stood 

That  held  her  eyes  for  hours  — 
A  cottage  low,  hid  under  the  snow 

Of  cherry  and  bean-vine  flowers. 
Sometimes  it  held  her  all  daylong) 

For  there  at  her  distaff  bent, 
And  spinning  a  double  thread  of  song 

And  of  wool,  in  her  sweet  content, 
Sat  the  mother  of  young  Alexis. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And  Janey  turned  things  in  and  out, 

As  foolish  maids  will  do. 
What  could  the  song  be  all  about  ? 

Yet  well  enough  she  knew 
That  while  the  fingers  drew  the  wool 

As  fine  as  fine  could  be, 
The  loving  mother-heart  was  full 

Of  her  boy  gone  to  sea  — 
Her  blue-eyed  boy,  her  pride  and  joy, 

On  the  cold  and  cruel  sea  — 
Her  darling  boy,  Alexis. 

And  beyond  the  good  green  piece  of 
wood, 

And  the  field  of  flowers  so  gay, 
Among  its  ancient  oaks  there  stood, 

With  gables  high  and  gray, 
A  lofty  hall,  where  mistress  of  all 

She  might  dance  the  night  away. 
And  as  she  sat  and  sewed  her  seam 

In  the  garden  bower  that  day 
Alike  from  seam  and  alike  from  dream 

Her  truant  thoughts  would  stray  ; 
It  would  l?e  so  fine  like  a  lady  to  shine, 

And  to  dance  the  night  away  ! 
And  oh,  and  alas  for  Alexis  ! 

And  suns  have  risen  and  suns  gone 
down 

On  cherry  and  bean-vine  bowers, 
And  the  tangled  curls  o'er  the  eyes  clove- 
brown 

They  fall  no  more  in  showers  ; 
Nor  are  there  bars  in  the  homespun  gown 

As  blue  as  the  flaxen  flowers. 
Aye,  winter  wind  and  winter  rain 

Have  beaten  away  the  Ijowers, 
And  little  Janey  is  Lady  Jane, 

And  dances  away  the  hours  ! 
Maidens  she  hath  to  play  and  sing, 

And  her  mother's  house  and  land 
Could  never  buy  the  jeweled  ring 

She  wears  on  her  lily  hand  — 
The  hand  that  is  false  to  Alexis  ! 

Ah,  bright  were  the  sweet  young  cheeks 

and  eyes, 

And  the  silken  gown  was  gay, 
When  first  to  the  hall  as  mistress  of  all 

She  came  on  her  wedding-day. 
"  Now    where,    my    bride,"    says    the 

groom  in  pride  — 

"  Now  where  will  your  chamber  be  ?  " 
And  from  wall  to  wall  she  praises  all, 

But  chooses  the  one  by  the  sea  ! 
And  the   suns   they  rise  and  the  suns 

they  set, 
But  she  rarely  sees  their  gleam. 


For  often  her  eyes  with  tears  are  wet. 
And   the   sewing-work   is  unfinished 

yet, 
And  so  is  the  girlish  dream. 

For  when  her  ladies  gird  at  her, 
And  her  lord  is  cold  and  stern. 

Old  memories  in  her  heart  must  stir, 
And  she  cannot  choose  but  mourn 

For  the  gentle  boy,  Alexis  ! 

And  alway,  when  the  dance  is  done, 

And  her  weary  feet  are  free, 
She  sits  in  her  chamber  all  alone 

At  the  window  next  the  sea, 
And  combs  her  shining  tresses  down 

By  the  light  of  the  fading  stars, 
And  may  be  thinks   of   her  homespun 
gown 

With  the  pretty  flax-flower  bars. 
For  when  the  foam  of  wintry  gales 

Runs  white  along  the  blue, 
Hearing  the  rattle  of  stiffened  sails, 

She  trembles  through  and  through, 
And  may  be  thinks  of  Alexis. 


THE  MINES   OF  AVONDALE. 

OLD  Death  proclaims  a  holocaust  — 

Two  hundred  men  must  die  ! 
And  he  cometh  not  like  a  thief  in  the 
night, 

But  with  banners  lifted  high. 
He  calleth  the  North  wind  out  o'  th* 
North 

To  blow  him  a  signal  blast, 
And  to  plough   the  air  with   a  fiery 
share, 

And  to  sow  the  sparks,  broadcast. 
No  fear  hath  he  of  the  arm  of  flesh, 

And  he  maketh  the  winds  to  cry. 
Let  come  who  will  to  this  awful  hill 

And  his  strength  against  me  try  ! 

So  quick  those  sparks  along  the  land 

Into  blades  of  flame  have  sprung  ; 
So  quick  the  piteous  face  of  Heaven 

With  a  veil  of  black  is  hung  : 
And   men    are   telling   the   news    with 
words, 

And  women  with  tears  and  sighs, 
And   the   children  with   the  frightened 
souls 

That  are  staring  from  their  eyes 
"  Death,  death  is  holding  a  holocaust  ! 

And  never  was  seen  such  pyre  — 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Head  packed  to  head  and  above  them 

spread 
Full  forty  feet  of  fire  !  " 

From  hill  to  hill-top  runs  the  cry. 

Through  farm  and  village  and  town, 
And  high  and  higher — "The   mine's 

on  fire  ! 

Two  hundred  men  sealed  down  ! 
And   not  with  the   dewy  hand  o'    th' 

earth, 
And    not    with    the    leaves    of    the 

trees  — 
Nor   is  it   the   waves    that   roof    their 

graves  — 

Oh  no,  it  is  none  of  these  — 
From  sight  and  sound  walled  round  and 

round  — 

For  God's  sake  haste  to  the  pyre  ! 
In  the  black  coal-beds,  and  above  their 

heads 
Full  forty  feet  of  fire  !  " 

And  now  the  villages  swarm  like  bees, 

And  the  miners  catch  the  sound, 
And  climb  to  the  land  with  their  picks 
in  hand 

From  their  chambers  in  the  ground. 
For  high  and  low  and  rich  and  poor, 

To  a  holy  instinct  true, 
Stand  forth  as  if  all  hearts  were  one 

And  a-tremb'e  through  and  through. 
On,  side  by  side  they  roll  like  a  tide, 

And  the  voice  grows  high  and  higher, 
"  Come  woe,  come  weal;  we  must  break 
the  seal 

Of  that  forty  feet  of  fire." 

Now  cries  of  fear,  shrill,  far  and  near, 

And  a  palsy  shakes  the  hands, 
And  the   blood  runs  cold,  for  behold, 

behold 

The  gap  where  the  enemy  stands  ! 
Oh,  never  had  painter  scenes  to  paint 

So  ghastly  and  grim  as  these  — 
Mothers   that    comfortless    sit    on  the 

ground 

With  their  babies  on  their  knees  ; 
The   brown-cheeked  lad  and  the  maid 

as  sad 

As  the  grandame  and  the  sire, 
And  'twixt  them  all  and  their  loved,  that 

wall  — 
That  terrible  wall  of  fire  ! 

And  the  grapple  begins  and  the  fore- 
most set 
Their  lives  against  death's  laws, 


And  the  blazing  timbers  catch  in  their 

arms 

And  bear  them  off  like  straws. 
They  have   lowered    the  flaunting   flag 

from  its  place  — 

They  will  die  in  the  gap,  or  save  ; 
For  this  they  have   done,    whale'er   be 

won  — 
They   have    conquered   fear   of    the 

grave. 
They   have   baffled  —  have   driven   the 

enemy, 

And  with  better  courage  strive  ; 
"  Who    knoweth,"    they    say,    "  God's 

mercy  to-day, 
And  the  souls  He  may  save  alive  !  " 

So  now  the  hands  have  digged  through 

the  brands  — 

They  can  see  the  awful  stairs, 
And   there   falls   a   hush   that   is   only 

stirred 

By  the  weeping  women's  prayers. 
"  Now   who    will    peril    his  limb    and 

life, 

In  the  damps  of  the  dreadful  mine  ?" 
"I,  I,  and  I  !  "  a  dozen  cry, 

As  they  forward  step  from  line  ! 
And  clown  from  the  light  and  out  o'  th' 

sight, 

Man  after  man  they  go, 
And  now  arise  th'  unanswered  cries 
As  they  beat  on  the  doors  below. 

And  night  came  down  —  what  a  woeful 

night  ! 

To  the  youths  and  maidens  fair, 
What  a  night  in  the  lives  of  the  miners' 

wives 

At  the  gate  of  a  dumb  despair. 
And  the    stars   have   set   their  solemn 

watch 

In  silence  o'er  the  hill, 
And  the  children  sleep  and  the  women 

weep, 

And  the  workers  work  with  a  will. 
And  so  the  hours  drag  on  and  on, 

And  so  the  night  goes  by, 
And  at  last  the  east  is  gray  with  dawn, 
And  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 

Hark,  hark  !  the  barricades  are  down, 
The  torchlights  farther  spread, 

The  doubt  is  past  —  they  are  found  at 

last  — 
Dead,  dead  !  two  hundred  dead  ! 

Face,  close  to  face,  in  a  long  embrace, 
And  the  young  and  the  faded  hair  — 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Gold  over  the  snow  as  if  meant  to  show 
Love  stayed  beyond  despair. 

Two  hundred  men  at  yester  morn 
With  the  work  of  the  world  to  strive  ; 

Two  hundred  yet  when  the  day  was  set, 
And  not  a  soul  alive  ! 

Oh,  long  the  brawny  Plymouth  men, 

As  they  sit  by  their  winter  fires, 
Shall  tell  the  tale  of  Avondale 

And  its  awful  pyre  of  pyres. 
Shall    hush   their  breath   and  tell  how 
Death 

His  flag  did  wildly  wave, 
And  how  in  shrouds  of  smoky  clouds 

The  miners  fought  in  their  graves. 
And  how  in  a  still  procession 

They  passed  from  that  fearful  glen, 
And  there  shall  be  wail  in  Avondale, 

For  the  brave  two  hundred  men. 


THE  VICTORY   OF    PERRY. 

SEPTEMBER    IOTH,    1813. 

LIFT  up  the  years  !  lift  up  the  years, 
Whose  shadows  around  us  spread  ; 

Let   us   tribute   pay   to   the   brave   to- 
day 
Who  are  half  a  century  dead. 

Oh,  not  with  tears  —  no,  not  with  tears, 

The  grateful  nation  comes, 
But  with  flags  out-thrown,  and  bugles 
blown, 

And  the  martial  roll  of  drums  ! 

Beat  up,  beat  up  !  till  memory  glows 
And  sets  our  hearts  aflame  ! 

Ah,  they  did  well  in  the  fight  who  fell, 
And  we  leave  them  to  their  fame ; 

Their  fame,  that  larger,  grander  grows 

As  time  runs  into  the  past, 
For   the    Erie-waves   chant   over   their 
graves, 

And  shall,  while  the  world  shall  last. 

O  beautiful  cities  of  the  Lake, 
As  ye  sit  by  your  peaceful  shore, 

Make   glad   and   sing   till   the   echoes 

ring, 
For  our  brave  young  Commodore  ! 

He  knew  your  stormy  oaks  to  take 
And  their  ribs  into  ships  contrive, 


And  to  set  them  so  fine  in  battle  line, 
With  their  timbers  yet  alive.1 

We  see  our  squadron  lie  in  the  Bay 

Where  it  lay  so  long  ago, 
And  hear  the  cry  from  the  mast-head 
high, 

Three  times,  and  three,  "  Sail  ho  !  " 

Through  half  a  century  to-day 
We  hear  the  signal  of  fight  — 

"  Get  under  way  !     Get  tinder  way  ! 
Tke  enemy  is  in  sight !  " 

Our  hearts  leap  up  — our  pulses  thrill, 
As  the  boatswains'  pipes  of  joy 

So   loudly   play   o'er   the   dash   o'  the 

spray, 
"  All  hands  up  anchor  ahoy  !  " 

Now  all  is  still,  aye,  deathly  still ; 

The  enemy's  guns  are  in  view  ! 
"  To  the  royal  Jore  !  "  cries  the  commo- 
dore, 

And  up  run  the  lilies  and  blue.2 

And  hark  to  the  cry,  the  great  glad 

cry,  — 

All  a-tremble  the  squadron  stands  — 
From   lip  to   lip,   "  Dorft  give  up  the 

ship  !  " 
And  then  "  To  quarters,  all  hands  !  " 

An  hour,  an  awful  hour  drags  by  — 
There  's   a  shot   from   the   enemy's 

gun ! 
" More  sail  f     More  sail!     Let  the  can~ 

isfer  hail !  " 
Cries  Perry,  and  forward,  as  one, 

Caledonia,  Lawrence,  and  Scorpion,  all 
Bear   down   and   stand  fast,  till   the 

flood 
Away  from  their  track  sends  the  scared 

billows  back 
With  their  faces  bedabbled  in  blood. 

The  Queen  3  and  her  allies  their  broad- 
sides let  fall  — 

Oh,    the    Lawrence   is    riddled   with 
storms  — 

1  Perry,  it  will  be  remembered,  cut  down  the 
trees,  built  and  launched  the  ships  of  his  fleet, 
all  within  three  months. 

2  The  famous  fighting-flag  was  inscribed  with 
the  immortal  words  of  the  dying  Lawrence,  in 
large  white   letters  on   a   blue   ground,  legible 
throughout  the  squadron. 

3  Queen  Charlotte  of  the  British  line. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


53 


Where  is  Perry  ?  afloat !   he  is  safe  in 

his  boat, 
And  his  battle-flag  up  in  his  arms  ! 

The  bullets  they  hiss  and  the  English- 
men shout  — 
Oh,     the     Lawrence     is     sinking,    a 

wreck  — 
But  with  flag  yet  a-swing  like  a  great 

bloody  wing 
Perry  treads  the  Niagara  s  deck ! 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  has  wheeled 

her  about  — 

Oh,  the  nation  is  holding  its  breath  — 
Headforemost  he  goes  in  the  midst  of 

his  foes 

And  breaks  them  and  rakes  them  to 
death  ! 

And  lo,  the  enemy,  after  the  fray, 

On  the  deck  that  his  dead  have  lined, 

With  his  sword-hilt  before  to  our  Com- 
modore, 
And  his  war-dogs  in  leash  behind  ! 

And  well,  the  nation  does  well  to-day, 

Setting  her  bugles  to  blow, 
And  her  drums  to  beat  for  the  glorious 
fleet 

That  humbled  her  haughty  foe. 

Ah,  well  to  come  with  her  autumn 
flowers, 

A  tribute  for  the  brave 
Who  died  to  make  our  Erie  Lake 

Echo  through  every  wave  — 

"  We  ''ve  met  the  enemy  and  they  ''re 
ours  !  " 

And  who  died,  that  we  might  stand, 
A  country  free  and  mistress  at  Sea 

As  well  as  on  the  Land. 


THE  WINDOW  JUST  OVER  THE 
STREET. 

I  SIT  in  my  sorrow  a-weary,  alone  ; 
I  have  nothing  sweet  to  hope  or  re- 
member, 
For  the  spring  o'  th'  year  and  of  life 

has  flown ; 
'Tis  the  wildest  night  o'  the  wild 

December, 

And  dark  in  my  spirit  and  dark  in 
my  chamber. 


I  sit  and  list  to  the  steps  in  the  street, 
Going  and  coming,  and  coming  and 


And  the  winds  at  my  shutter  they  blow 

and  beat  ; 
'T  is   the   middle   of    night   and   the 

clouds  are  snowing  ; 
And  the  winds   are   bitterly  beating 

and  blowing. 

I  list  to  the  steps  as  they  come  and  go, 
And  list  to  the  winds  that  are  beating 

and  blowing, 
And  my  heart  sinks  down  so  low,  so 

low  ; 
No  step  is  stayed  from  me  by  the 

snowing, 

Nor  stayed  by  the  wind  so  bitterly 
blowing. 

I  think  of  the   ships  that   are   out   at 

sea, 
Of  the  wheels  in  th'  cold,  black  waters 

turning  ; 
Not  one  of  the  ships  beareth  news  to 

me, 
And  my  head  is  sick,  and  my  heart 

is  yearning, 
As  I  think  of  the  wheels  in  the  black 

waters  turning. 

Of  the  mother  I   think,   by  her  sick 

baby's  bed, 
Away  in  her  cabin  as  lonesome  and 

dreary, 
And  little  and  low  as  the  flax-breaker's 

shed; 
Of   her  patience   so   sweet,  and   her 

silence  so  weary, 
With  cries  of  the  hungry  wolf  hid  in 

the  prairie. 

I  think  of  all  things  in  the  world  that 

are  sad  ; 
Of   children   in   homesick  and  com- 

fortless places  ; 
Of  prisons,   of  dungeons,  of  men  that 

are  mad  ; 
Of  wicked,  unwomanly  light   in   the 

faces 

Of  women  that  fortune  has  wronged 
with  disgraces. 

I  think  of  a  dear  little  sun-lighted  head, 
That  came  where  no  hand  of  us  all 

could  deliver  ; 
And  crazed  with  the  cruelest  pain  went 

to  bed 


54 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Where  the  sheets  were  the  foam- 
fretted  waves  of  the  river  ; 

Poor  darling  !  may  God  in  his  mercy 
forgive  her. 

The   footsteps    grow   faint    and    more 

faint  in  the  snow  ; 

I   put  back  the  curtain  in  very  de- 
spairing ; 
The  masts  creak  and  groan  as  th'  winds 

come  and  go  ; 
And  the  light  in  the  light-house  all 

weirdly  is  flaring  ; 

But  what  glory  is  this,  in  the  gloom 
of  despairing  ! 

I   see   at   the   window    just   over   the 

street, 

A   maid   in  the   lamplight   her  love- 
letter  reading. 
Her  red  mouth  is  smiling,  her  news  is 

so  sweet ; 
And  the  heart  in  my  bosom  is  cured 

of  its  bleeding, 

As  I  look  on  the  maiden  her  love- 
letter  reading. 

She  has  finished  the  letter,  and  folding 

it,  kisses. 
,  And  hides  it  —  a  secret  too  sacred  to 

know  ; 
And  now  in  the  hearth-light  she  softly 

undresses  : 
A   vision   of  grace   in   the   roseate 

glow, 

I  see  her  unbinding  the  braids  of  her 
tresses. 

And  now  as  she  stoops  to  the  ribbon 

that  fastens 
Her  slipper,  they  tumble  o'er  shoulder 

and  face  ; 
And  now,  as  she  patters  in  bare  feet, 

she  hastens 
To   gather   them   up   in   a  fillet   of 

lace  ; 

And  now  she  is  gone,  but  in  fancy  I 
trace 

The    lavendered    linen    updrawn,    the 

round  arm 
Half     sunk     in    the     counterpane's 

broidered  roses, 

Revealing  the  exquisite  outline  of  form  ; 
A  willowy  wonder  of  grace  that  re- 
poses 

Beneath  the  white  counterpane,  fleecy 
with  roses. 


I  see  the  small   hand   lying  over  thj 

heart, 
Where  the  passionate  dreams  are  so 

sweet  in  their  sally  ; 
The  fair  little  fingers  they  tremble  and 

part, 
As  part  to  th'  warm  waves  the  leaves 

of  the  lily, 
And  they  play  with  her  hand  like  the 

waves  with  the  lily. 

In  white  fleecy  flowers,  the  queen  o'  the 

flowers  ! 
What  to  her  is  the  world  with  its  bad, 

bitter  weather  ? 
Wide   she   opens   her   arms  —  ah,    her 

world  is  not  ours  ! 
And  now  she   has  closed  them  and 

clasped  them  together  — 
What  to  her  is  our  world,  with  its 
clouds  and  rough  weather  ? 

Hark  !  midnight !   the   winds   and   the 
snows  blow  and  beat ; 

I  drop  down  the  curtain  and  say  to 

my  sorrow, 

Thank  God  for  the  window  just  over  the 
street  ; 

Thank   God   there  is  always  a  light 
whence  to  borrow 

When  darkness-  is  darkest,  and  sor- 
row most  sorrow. 


A  FABLE  OF  CLOUD-LAND. 

Two  clouds  in  the  early  morning 

Came  sailing  up  the  sky  — 
'T  was  summer,  and  the  meadow-lands 

Were  brown  and  baked  and  dry. 

And  the  higher  cloud  was   large   and 

black, 

And  of  a  scornful  mind, 
And  he  sailed  as  though  he  turned  his 

back 
On  the  smaller  one  behind. 

At  length,  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
He  said  to  his  mate  so  small, 

"  If  I  was  n't  a  bigger  cloud  than  you, 
I  would  n't  be  one  at  all !  " 

And  the  little  cloud  that  held  her 

place 
So  low  along  the  sky, 


BALLADS  AND  'NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


55 


Grew  red,  then  purple,  in  the  face, 
And  then  she  began  to  cry  ! 

And  the  great  cloud  thundered  out  again 

As  loud  as  loud  could  be, 
"  Las;  lowly  s'ill,  and  cry  if  you  will, 

I  'm  going  to  go  to  sea  ! 

M  The  land  don't  give  me  back  a  smile, 

I  will  leave  it  to  the  sun. 
And   will    show  you   something   worth 
your  while, 

Before  the  day  is  done  !  " 

So  off  he  ran,  without  a  stop, 

Upon  his  sea  voyage  bent, 
And  he  never  shed  a  single  drop 

On  the  dry  land  as  he  went. 

And  directly  came  a  rumble 

Along  the  air  so  dim  ; 
And  then  a  crash,  and  then  a  dash, 

And  the  sea  had  swallowed  him  ! 

"  I  don't  make  any  stir  at  all," 
Said  the  little  cloud,  with  a  sigh, 

And  her  tears  began  like  rain  to  fall 
On  the  meadows  parched  and  dry. 

And  over  the  rye  and  the  barley 

They  fell  and  fell  all  day, 
And   soft   and   sweet  on  the   fields   of 
wheat, 

Till  she  wept  her  heart  away. 

And   the   bean-flowers   and   the    buck- 
wheat, 

They  scented  all  the  air, 
And  in  the  time  of  the  harvest 

There  was  bread  enough  and  to  spare. 

I  know  a  man  like  that  great  cloud 

As  much  as  he  can  live, 
And  he  gives  his   alms  with  thunder- 
cloud 

Where  there  is  no  need  to  give. 

And  T  know  a  woman  who  doth  keep 
Where  praise  comes  not  at  all, 

Like  the  modest  cloud  that  could  but 

weep 
Because  she  was  so  small. 

The   name   of   the   one   the   poor  will 
bless 

When  her  day  shall  cease  to  be, 
And  the  other  will  fall  as  profitless 

As  the  cloud  did  in  the  sea. 


BARBARA  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

CLOSE   at    the    window-pane    Barbara 

stands  ; 
The  wall  o'  th'  dingy  old  house  are 

aglow  ; 
Pressing  her  cheeks  are  her  two  little 

hands, 

Drooping  her  eyelids  so  meek  and  so 
low. 

What  do  you  see  little  Barbara  ?     Say  ! 
The  walls  o'  th'  dingy  old  house  are 

aglow  ; 
The  leaves  they  are  down,  and  the  birds 

are  away, 

And  lilac  and  rosebush  are  white  with 
the  snow. 

An  hour  the  sun  has  been  out  o'  th'  west ; 
The  walls  o'  th'  poor  little  house  are 

aglow ; 
Come,  Barbara,  come  to  th'  hearth  with 

th'  rest, 

Right  gayly  she  tosses  her  curls  for  a 
"  No  !'" 

The  grandmother  sits  in  her  straw  bot- 
tom chair  ; 
And  rafter  and  wall  they  are  brightly 

aglow  ; 

The  dear  little  mother  is  knitting  a  pair 
Of  scarlet-wool  stockings  tipt   white 
at  th'  toe. 

A  glad  girl  and  boy  are  at  play  by  her 

knee  ; 
The  walls  o'  th'  poor  little  house  are 

aglow  ! 
Now  driving  th'  crickets,  for  cows,  in 

their  glee, 

Now  rolling  the  yarn-balls  o'  scarlet 
and  snow. 

And  now  they  are  fishers,  with  nets  in 

the  stream  ; 
And  rafter  and  wall  o'  the  house  are 

aglow  ; 
Or  sleeping,  or  waking,  their  lives  are  a 

dream  ; 

But  what  seeth  Barbara,  there  in  the 
snow  ? 

And  th'  voice  of  Barbara  ringeth  out 

clear ; 

The   walls,   the   rough    rafters,   how 
brightly  they  glow  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


If  you  will  believe  me,  I  see  you  all 

here  ! 

Our  dear  little  room  seemeth  double, 
you  know. 

The  fire,  the   tea-kettle  swung  on  the 

crane  ; 
And  rafter  and  wall  with  the  candle 

aglow  ; 
Grandmother   and   mother,   right   over 

again  ! 

And  Peter,  and  Katharine,  all  in  the 
snow. 

Sweet  Barbara,  standing  so  close  to  th' 

pane, 
With    the    walls   o'    th'   little   house 

brightly  aglow  ; 

You  will  only  see  everything  over  again, 
Whatever  you  see,  and  wherever  you 
go! 


BARBARA  IN   THE  MEADOW. 

THE  morn  is  hanging  her   fire-fringed 

veil, 
Made   of   the  mist,  o'er   the   walnut 

boughs, 

And  Barbara,  with  her  cedar  pail, 
Comes  to  the   meadow   to   call   the 


"The  little  people  that  live  in  the  air 
Are    not    for   my   human    hands   to 
wrongv" 

Savs  Barbara,  and  her  loving  prayer 
Takes  them  up  as  it  goes  along. 

Gay   sings   the    miller,   and    Barbara's 

mouth 

Purses   with   echoes    it   will   not   re- 
peat, 

And  the  rose  on  her  cheek  hath  a  May- 
day's growth 

In  the  line  with  the  ending,  "  I  love 
you,  sweet." 

Yonder  the  mill  is,  small  and  white, 
Hung  like  a  vapor  among  the  rocks  — 

Good  spirits  say  to  her  morn  and  night, 
"  Barbara,    Barbara  !    stay  with  your 
flocks." 

Stay  for  the  treasures  you  have  to  keep, 
Cherish  the  love  that   you  know  is 
true  ; 


Though  stars  should  shine  in  the  tears 

you  weep, 

They  never  would  come  out  of  heaven 
to  you. 

And    were    you    to    follow    the   violet 

veins 
Over  the  hills  —  to  the  ends  of  the 

earth, 
Barbara,  what  would  you  get  for  your 

pains, 

More   than   your  true-love's   love   is 
worth  ? 

So,  never  a  thought  about  braver  mills, 
Of    prouder    lovers    your    dreaming 

cease  ; 

A  world  is  shut  in  among  these  hills  — 
Stay   in    it,    Barbara,   stay,  for   your 
peace ! 


BALLAD   OF  UNCLE  JOE. 

WHEN    I    was    young  —  it    seems    as 
though 

There  never  were  such  when  — 
There  lived  a  man  that  now  I  know 

Was  just  the  best  of  men  ; 
I  '11  name  him  to  you,  "  Uncle  Joe," 

For  so  we  called  him  then. 

A  poor  man  he,  that  for  his  bread 
Must  work  with  might  and  main. 

The  humble  roof  above  his  head 
Scarce  kept  him  from  the  rain ; 

But  so  his  dog  and  he  were  fed, 
He  sought  no  other  gain. 

His  steel-blue  axe,  it  was  his  pride, 

And  over  wood  and  wave 
Its  music  rang  out  far  and  wide, 

His  strokes  they  were  so  brave  ; 
Excepting  that  some  neighbor  died, 

And  then  he  dug  his  grave. 

And  whether  it  were  wife  or  child, 

An  old  man,  or  a  maid, 
An  infant  that  had  hardly  smiled, 

Or  youth,  so  lowly  laid, 
The  yellow  earth  was  always  piled 

Above  them  by  his  spade. 

For  spade  he  had,  and  grubbing-hoe, 

And  hence  the  people  said 
It  was  not  much  that  Uncle  Joe 

Should  bury  all  the  dead ; 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


57 


So  ricli  and  poor,  and  high  and  low, 
lie  made  them  each  a  bed. 

The  funeral-bell  was  like  a  jog 

Upon  his  wits,  they  say, 
That  made  him  leave  his  half -cut  log 

At  any  time  of  day, 
And  whistle  to  his  brindle  dog 

And  light  his  pipe  of  clay. 

When  winter  winds  around  him  drave 
And  made  the  snow-flakes  spin, 

I  've  seen  him  —  for  he  did  not  save 
His  strength,  for  thick  nor  thin  — 

His  h  ire  head  just  above  the  grave 
That  he  was  standing  in. 

His  simple  mind  was  almost  dark 

To  school-lore, -that  is.true  ; 
The  wisdom  he  had  gained  at  work 

Was  nearly  all  he  knew  ; 
But  ah,  the  way  he  made  his  mark 

Was  honest,  through  and  through. 

'T  was  not  among  the  rulers  then 

That  he  in  council  sat  ; 
They  used  to  say  that  with  his  pen 

His  fingers  were  not  pat ; 
But  he  was  still  a  gentleman 

For  all  and  all  of  that. 

The  preacher  in  his  silken  gown 

Was  not  so  well  at  ease 
As  he,  with  collar  lopping  down 

And  patches  at  his  knees, 
The  envy  of  our  little  town, 

He  had  n't  a  soul  to  please  ; 

Nor  wife  n»r  brother,  chick  nor  child, 

Nor  any  kith  nor  kin. 
Perhaps  the  townsfolk  were  beguiled 

And  the  envy  was  a  sin, 
But  his  look  of  sweetness  when  he  smiled 

Betokened  joy  within. 

He  sometimes  took  his  holiday, 

And  't  was  a  pleasant  sight 
To  see  him  smoke  his  pipe  of  clay, 

As  if  all  the  world  went  right, 
While  his  brindle  dog  beside  him  lay 

A-winking  at  the  light. 

He  took  his  holiday,  and  so 
His  face  with  gladness  shone  ; 

But,  ah  !   I  cannot  make  you  know 
One  bliss  he  held  alone, 

Unless  the  heart  of  Uncle  Joe 
Were  beating  in  your  own  ! 


He  had  an  old  cracked  violin, 
And  I  just  may  whisper  you 

The  music  was  so  weak  and  thin 
'T  was  like  to  an  ado, 

As  he  drew  the  long  bow  out  and  in 
To  all  the  tune  he  knew. 

From  January  on  till  June, 

And  back  again  to  snow, 
Or  in  the  tender  light  o'  the  moon, 

Or  by  the  hearth-fire's  glow, 
To  that  old-fashioned,  crazy  tune 

He  made  his  elbow  go  ! 

Ah !    then    his  .smile   would    come   so 
sweet 

It  brightened  all  the  air, 
And  heel  and  toe  would  beat  and  beat 

Till  the  ground  of  grass  was  bare, 
As  if  that  little  lady  feet 

Were  dancing  with  him  there  ! 

His  finger  nails,  so  bruised  and  flat, 

Would  grow  in  this  employ 
To  such  a  rosy  roundness  that 

He  almost  seemed  a  boy, 
And  even  the  old  crape  on  his  hat 

Would  tremble  as  with  joy. 

So,  digging  graves,  and  chopping  wood, 

He  spent  the  busy  day, 
And  always,  as  a  wise  man  should, 

Kept  evil  thoughts  at  bay  ; 
For  when  he  could  not  speak  the  good, 

He  had  n't  a  word  to  say. 

And  so  the  years  in  shine  and  storm 

Went  by,  as  years  will  go, 
Until  at  last  his  palsied  arm 

Could  hardly  draw  the  bow  ; 
Until  he  crooked  through  all  his  form, 

Much  like  his  grubbing-hoe. 

And  then  his  axe  he  deeply  set, 

And  on  the  wall-side  pegs 
Hung    hoe   and    spade  ;    no  fear   nor 
fret 

That  life  was  at  the  dregs, 
But  walked  about  of  a  warm  day  yet, 

With  his  dog  between  his  legs. 

Sometimes,  as  one  who  almost  grieves, 

His  memory  would  recall 
The  merry-making  Christmas  Eves, 

The  frolic,  and  the  ball, 
Till  his  hands  would  shake  like  with- 
ered leaves 

And  his  pipe  go  out  and  fall. 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Then  all  his  face  would  grow  as  bright  — 

So  I  have  oft  heard  say  — 
As  if  that,  being  lost  in  the  night, 

He  saw  the  dawn  o'  the  day  ; 
As  if  from  a  churlish,  chilling"  height 

He  saw  the  light  o'  the  May. 

One  winter  night  the  fiddle-bow 

His  fingers  ceased  to  tease, 
And  they  found  him  by  the  morning  glow 

Beneath  his  door-yard  trees, 
Wrapt  in  the  ermine  of  the  snow, 

And  royally  at  ease. 

What  matter  that  the  winds  were  wild  ! 

He  did  not  hear  their  din, 
But  hugging,  as  it  were  his  child, 

Against  his  grizzly  chin, 
The  treasure  of  his  life,  he  smiled, 

For  all  was  peace  within. 

And  when  they  drew  the  vest  apart 

To  fold  the  hands  away, 
They  found  a  picture  past  all  art 

Of  painting,  so  they  say  ; 
And  they  turned  the  face  upon  the  heart, 

And  left  it  where  it  lay. 

And  one,  a  boy  with  golden  head, 
Made  haste  and  strung  full  soon 

The  crazy  viol  ;  for  he  said, 
Mayhap  beneath  the  moon 

They  danced  sometime  a  merry  tread 
To  the  beloved  tune. 

And  many  an  eye  with  tears  was  dim 
The  while  his  corse  they  bore  ; 

No  hands  had  ever  worked  for  him 
Since  he  was  born  before  ; 

Nor  could  there  come  an  hour  so  grim 
That  he  should  need  them  more. 

The  viol,  ready  tuned  to  play, 

The  sadly-silent  bow. 
The  axe,  the  pipe  of  yellow  clay, 

Are  in  his  grave  so  low  ; 
And  there  is  nothing  more  to  say 

Of  poor  old  Uncle  Joe. 


THE   FARMER'S   DAUGHTER. 

HER  voice  was  tender  as  a  lullaby, 
Making  you  think  of  milk-white  dews 

that  creep 
Among  th'  mid-May  violets,  when  they 

lie, 
All  in  yellow  moonlight  fast  asleep. 


Aye,  tender  as  that  most  melodious  tone 
The    lark    has,    when    within    some 

covert  dim 
With  leaves,  he  talks  with  morning  all 

alone, 

Persuading  her  to  rise  and  come  to 
him. 

Shy   in    her  ways ;  her   father's   cattle 

knew    - 

No  neighbor  half  so  well  —  her  foot- 
step light, 
For  by  the  pond  where  mint  and  mallows 

grew 

Always   she   came   and  called  them 
home  at  night. 

A  sad,  low  pond  that  cut  the  field  in 

two 
Wherein  they  ran,  and  never  billow 

sent 

To  play  with  any  breeze,  but  still  with- 
drew 
Into  itself,  in  wrinkled,  dull  content. 

And  here,  through  mint  and  mallows  she 

would  stray, 
Musing   the  while   she   called,  as   it 

might  be 
On  th'  cold  clouds,  or  winds  that  with 

rough  gray 

Shingled  the  landward  slope  of  the 
near  sea. 

'God  knows  !  not  I,  on  what  she  mused 

o'  nights 
Straying  about  the  pond :  she  had  no 

woe 

To  think  upon,  they  said,  nor  such  de- 
lights 

As  maids  are  wont  to  hide.     I  only 
know 

We  do  not  know  the  weakness  or  the 

worth 
Of  any  one :  th'  Sun  as  he  will  may 

trim 
His  golden  lights ;  he  cannot  see   the 

earth 

He  loves,  but  on  the  side  she  turns  to 
him. 

I  only  know  that  when  this  lonesome 

pond 

Lifted  the  buried  lilies  from  its  breast 
One  warm,  wet  day  (I  nothing  know  be- 
yond), 
It  lifted  her  white  face  up  with  ihe  rest 


POEMS 


OF 


THOUGHT   AND   FEELING. 


ON    SEEING    A    DROWNING 
MOTH. 

POOR  little  moth  !  thy  summer  sports 

were  done, 

Had  I  not  happened  by  this  pool  to  lie  ; 
But  thou  hast  pierced  my  conscience 

very  sore 
With   thy  vain    flounderings,   so  come 

ashore 

In  the  safe  hollow  of  my  helpful  hand, — 
Rest  thee  alittle  on  the  warm,  dry  sand, 
Then  crawling  out  into  the  friendly 

sun, 
As  best  thou  mayest,  get  thy  wet  wings 

dry. 
Aye,  it  has  touched  my  conscience,  little 

moth, 
To  see  thy  bright  wings  made  for  other 

use, 

Haply  for  just  a  moment's  chance  abuse, 
Dragging  thee,  thus,  to  death  ;  yet  am  I 

loath 

To  heed  the  lesson,  for  I  fain  would  lie 
Along  the  margin  of  this  water  low 
And  watch  the  sunshine  run  in  tender 

gleams 
Down   the    gray  elders  —  watch   those 

flowers  of  light,  — 
If  flowers  they  be,  and  not  the  golden 

dreams 

Left  in  her  grassy  pillows  by  the  night,  — 
The  dandelions,  that  trim  the  shadows 

so, 
And  watch  the  wild  flag,  with  her  eyes 

of  blue 

Wide  open  for  the  sun  to  look  into,  — 
Her  green  skirts  laid  along  the  wind,  and 

she, 

As  if  to  mar  fair  fortune  wantonly, 
Wading  along  the  water,  half  her  height. 
Fain  would  I  lie,  with  arms  across  my 

breast, 
As  quiet  as  yon  wood-duck  on  her  nest, 


That  sits  the  livelong  day  with  ruffled 

quills, 

Waiting  to  see  the  little  yellow  bills 
Breach  the  white  walls  about  them,  — 

would  that  I 

Could  find  out  some  sweet  charm  where- 
with to  buy 
A  too  uneasy  conscience,  —  then  would 

Rest 

Gather  and  fold  me  to  itself  ;  and  last, 
Forgetting  the  hereafter  and  the  past, 
My  soul  would  have  the  present  for  its 

guest, 
And  grow  immortal. 

So,  my  little  fool, 
Thou  'rt  back  upon  the  water  !     Lord  ! 

how  vain 
The  strife  to  save  or  man  or  moth  from 

pain 

Merited  justly,  —  having  thy  wild  way 
To  travel  all  the  air,  thou  comest  here 
To  try  with  spongy  feet  the  treacherous 

pool ; 
Well,  thou  at  least  hast  made  one  truth 

more  clear,  — 
Men  make  their  fate,  and  do  not  fate 

obey. 


GOOD   AND   EVIL. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 
JULIUS  CJESA.K. 

ONCE  when  the  messenger  that  stays 

For  all,  beside  me  stood, 
I  mused   on   what  great   Shakespeare 
says 

Of  evil  and  of  good. 

And  shall  the  evil  I  have  done 

Live  after  me  ?  I  said  ; 
When  lo  !  a  splendor  like  the  sun 

Shone  round  about  my  bed. 


6o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


And  a  sweet  spirit  of  the  skies 

Near  me,  yet  all  apart, 
In  whispers  like  the  low  wind's  sighs, 

Spake  to  my  listening  heart ; 

Saying,  your  poet,  reverenced  thus, 
For  once  hath  been  unwise ; 

The  good  we  do  lives  after  us, 
The  evil  't  is  that  dies  ! 

Evil  is  earthy,  of  the  earth,  — 
A  thing  of  pain  and  crime, 

Tnat  scarcely  sends  a  shadow  forth 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

But  good,  in  substance,  dwells  above 

This  discontented  sphere, 
Extending  only,  through  God's  love, 

Uncertain  shadows  here. 


STROLLER'S   SONG. 

THE  clouds  all  round  the  sky  are  black, 
As  it  never  would  shine  again  ; 

But  I  '11  sling  my  wallet  over  my  back, 
And  trudge  in  spite  of  the  rain  ! 

And  if  there  rise  no  star  to  guide 

My  feet  when  day  is  gone, 
I  '11  shift  my  wallet  the  other  side, 

And  trudge  right  on  and  on. 

For  this  of  a  truth  I  always  note, 
And  shape  my  course  thereby, 

That  Nature  has  never  an  overcoat 
To  keep  her  furrows  dry. 

And   how  should   the  hills  be  clothed 
with  grain, 

The  vales  with  flowers  be  crowned, 
But  for  the  chain  of  the  silver  rain 

That  draws  them  out  of  the  ground ! 

So  I  will  trudge  with  heart  elate, 
And  feet  with  courage  shod, 

For  that  which  men   call   chance   and 

fate 
Is  the  handiwork  of  God. 

There  's  time  for  the  night  as  well  as 

the  morn, 

For  the  dark  as  the  shining  sky  ; 
The  grain  of   the  corn   and  the  flower 

unborn 
Have  rights  as  well  as  I. 


A    LESSON. 

ONE  autumn  time  I  went  into  the  woods 

When  Nature  grieves, 
And  wails  the  drying  up  of  the  bright 
floods 

Of  summer  leaves. 

The  rose  had  drawn  the  green  quilt  of 

the  grass 
Over  her  head, 
And,    taking    off   her    pretty,   rustling 

dress, 
Had  gone  to  bed. 

And,    while     the    wind    went    ruffling 
through  her  bower  ' 

To  do  her  harm, 
She  lay  and  slept  away  the  frosty  hour, 

All  safe  and  warm. 

The  little  bird  that  came  when  May  was 
new, 

And  sang  her  best, 
Had  gone,  —  I  put  my  double  hand  into 

Her  chilly  nest. 

Then,  sitting   down  beneath  a  naked 
tree, 

I  looked  about,  — 
Saying,  in  these,  if  there  a  lesson  be, 

I  '11  spy  it  out. 

And   presently  the   teaching   that   was 
meant 

I  thought  I  saw,  — 
That  I,  in  trial,  should  patiently  consent 

To  God's  great  law. 


HE  spoils  his  house  and  throws  his 

pains  away 
Who,  as   the   sun   veers,   builds   his 

windows  o'er, 
For,  should   he  wait,  the   Light,  some 

time  of  day, 

Would   come  and  sit  beside  him  in 
his  door. 


ON  SEEING  A   WILD  BIRD. 

BEAUTIFUL  symbol  of  a  freer  life, 
Knowing  no  purpose,  and  yet  true  to 


POEMS   OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


61 


Would  I  could  learn  thy  wisdom,  I 

who  run 

This  way  and  that,  striving  against  my 
strife. 

:No   fancy   vague,   no   object   half    un- 
known, 
Diverts  thee  from  thyself.     By  stops 

and  starts 

I  live  the  while  by  little  broken  parts 
A  thousand  lives,  —  not  one  of  all,  my 
own. 

Thou  sing'st  thy  full  heart  out,  and  low 

or  high 

Flyest  at  pleasure  ;  who  of  us  can  say 
He  lives  his  inmost  self  e'en  for  a  day, 
And  does  the   thing   he  would  ?  alas, 
not  I. 

We  hesitate,  go  backward,  and  return, 
And  when  the  earth  with  living  sun- 
shine gleams, 
We  make  a  darkness  round  us  with 

our  dreams, 

And  wait  for  that  which  we  ourselves 
should  earn. 

For  we  shall  work  out  answers  to  our 

needs 

If  we  have  continuity  of  will 
To  hold  our  shifting  purposes  until 
They  germinate,  and  bring  forth  fruit 
in  deeds. 

We  ask   and   hope    too    much,  —  too 

lightly  press 
Toward   the  end   sought,  and   haply 

learn,  at  length, 
That     we     have     vainly     dissipated 

strength    • 

Which,     concentrated,     would      have 
brought  success. 

But  Truth  is  sure,  and  can   afford  to 

wait 
Our  slow  perception,  (error  ebbs  and 

flows  ;) 

Her  essence  is  eternal,  and  she  knows 
The  world   must   swing  round   to   her, 
soon  or  late. 


RICH,  THOUGH    POOR. 

RED  in  the  east  the  morning  broke, 
And  in  three  chambers  three  men  woke  ; 


One  through  curtains  wove  that  night 
In  the  loom  of  the  spider,  saw  the  light 
Lighting  the  rafters  black  and  old, 
And  sighed  for  the  genii  to  make  them 
gold. 

One  in  a  chamber,  high  and  fair, 
With  paneled  ceilings,  enameled  rare, 
On  the  purple  canopy  of  his  bed 
Saw  the  light  with  a  sluggard's  dread, 
And  buried  his  sullen  and  sickly  face 
Deep  in  his  pillow  fringed  with  lace. 

One,  from  a  low  and  grassy  bed, 
With  the  golden  air  for  a  coverlet ; 
No  ornaments  had  he  to  wear 
But  his  curling  beard  and  his  coal-black 

hair  ; 
His  wealth  was   his  acres,   and  oxen 

twain, 
And  health  was  his  cheerful  chamberlain. 

Night  fell  stormy  —  "  Woe  is  me  !  " 
Sighed  so  wearily  two  of  the  three  ; 
'*  The  corn  I  planted  to-day  will  sprout," 
Said  one,  "  and   the  roses  be  blushing 

out ; " 
And  his  heart  with  its  joyful  hope  o'er- 

ran  : 
Think  you  he  was  the  poorest  man  ? 


STILL  from  the  unsatisfying  quest 
To  know  the  final  plan, 

I  turn  my  soul  to  what  is  best 
In  nature  and  in  man. 


THE    glance  that  doth    thy  neighbor 
doubt 

Turn  thou,  O  man,  within, 
And  see  if  it  will  not  bring  out 

Some  unsuspected  sin. 

To  hide  from  shame  the  branded  brow, 

Make  broad  thy  charity, 
And  judge  no  man,  except  as  thou 

Wouldst  have  him  judge  of  thee. 


SIXTEEN. 

SUPPOSE  your  hand   with   power   sup- 
plied, — 
Say,  would  you  slip  it  'neath  my  hair, 


62 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  turn  it  to  the  golden  side 

Of  sixteen  years  ?    Suppose  you  dare  ? 

And  I  stood  here  with  smiling  mouth, 
Red  cheeks,  and  hands  all  softly  white, 

Exceeding  beautiful  with  youth, 

And  that  some  sly,  consenting  sprite 

Brought  dreams  as  bright  as  dreams 

can  be, 

To  keep  the  shadows  from  my  brow, 
And   plucked  down  hearts  to  pleasure 

me, 
As  you  would  roses  from  a  bough  ; 

What  could  I  do  then  ?  idly  wear  — 
While  all  my  mates  went  on  before  — 

The  bashful  looks  and  golden  hair 
Of  sixteen  years,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Nay,  done  with  youth  is  my  desire, 
To  Time  I  give  no  false  abuse, 

Experience  is  the  marvelous  fire 
That  welds  our  knowledge  into  use. 

And  all  its  fires  of  heart,  or  brain, 
Where     purpose    into     power    was 
wrought, 

I  'd  bear,  and  gladly  bear  again, 

Rather  than  be  put  back  one  thought. 

So  sigh  no  more,  my  gentle  friend, 
That  I  have  reached  the  time  of  day 

When  white  hairs  come,  and  heart-beats 

send 
No  blushes  through  the  cheeks  astray. 

For,  could  you  mould  my  destiny 
As  clay  within  your  loving  hand, 

I  'd  leave  my  youth's  sweet  company, 
And  suffer  back  to  where  I  stand' 


PRAYER  FOR   LIGHT. 

OH  what  is  Thy  will  toward  us  mortals, 

Most  Holy  aiid  High  ? 
Shall  we  die  unto  life  while  we  "re  liv- 
ing ? 

Or  die  while  we  die  ? 

Can  we  serve  Thee  and  wait  on  Thee 

only 

In  cells,  dark  and  low  ? 
Must  the  altars  we  build  Thee  be  built 

with 
The  stones  of  our  woe  ? 


Shall  we  only  attain  the  great  meas- 
ures 

Of  grace  and  of  bliss 
In  the  life  that  awaits  us,  by  cruelly 

Warring  on  this  ? 

Or,  may  we  still  watch  while  we  work, 
and 

Be  glad  while  we  pray  ? 
So  reverent,  we  cast  the  poor  shows  of 

Our  reverence  away ! 

Shall  the  nature  Thou  gav'st  us,  pro- 
nouncing it 

Good,  and  not  ill, 
Be  warped  by  our  pride  or  our  passion 

Outside  of  Thy  will  ? 

Shall  the  sins  which  we  do  in  our  blind- 
ness 

Thy  mercy  transcend, 
And  drag  us  down  deeper  and  deeper 

Through  worlds  without  end  ? 

Or,  are  we  stayed  back  in  sure  limits, 

And  Thou,  high  above, 
O'erruling  our  trials  for  our  triumph, 

Our  hatreds  for  love  ? 

And  is  each  soul  rising,  though  slowly, 

As  onward  it  fares, 
And  are  life's  good  things  and  its  evil 

The  steps  in  the  stairs  ? 

All  day  with  my  heart  and  my  spirit, 

In  fear  and  in  awe, 
I  strive  to  feel  out  through  my  darkness 

Thy  light  and  Thy  law. 

And  this,  when  the  sun  from  his  shining 

Goes  sadly  away, 

And  the  moon  looketh  out  of  her  cham- 
ber, 

Is  all  I  can  say  ; 

That  He  who  foresaw  of  transgression 

The  might  and  the  length, 
Has  fashioned  the  law  to  exceed  not 

Our  poor  human  strength  ! 


THE  UNCUT   LEAF. 

You  think  I  do  not  love  you  !     Why, 
Because  I  have  my  secret  grief  ? 

Because  in  reading  I  pass  by, 
Time  and  again,  the  uncut  leaf  ? 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


One  rainy  night  you  read  to  me 

In  some  old  book,  I  know  not  what, 

About  the  woods  of  Eldersie, 
And  a  great  hunt —  I  have  forgot 

What  all  the  story  was  —  ah,  well, 
It  touched  me,  and  I  felt  the  pain 
th  which  the  poor  dumb  creature  fell 
his  weak  knees,  then  rose  again, 

d  shuddering,  dying,  turned  about, 
,ifted  his  antlered  head  in  pride, 
d  from  his  wounded  face  shook  out 
"he  bloody  arrows  ere  he  died  ! 

at  night  I  almost  dared,  I  think, 

cut  the  leaf,  and  let  the  sun 
line  in  upon  the  mouldy  ink,  — 
You  ask  me  why  it  was  not  done. 

ecause  I  rather  feel  than  know 

"he  truth  which  every  soul  receives 
<Yom  kindred  souls  that  long  ago 
You   read   me    through    the   double 
leaves  ! 

pray  you,  leave  my  tears  to  blot 
'he  record  of  my  secret  grief, 
d  though  I  know  you  know,  seem  not 
£ver  to  see  the  uncut  leaf. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  TRUTH. 

E  are  proclaimed,  even  against  our 

wills  — 
f  we   are   silent,   then  our    silence 

speaks  — 

lildren  from  tumbling  on  tfie  summer- 
hills 
Come  home  with  roses  rooted  in  their 

cheeks. 
I  think  no  man  can  make  his  lie  hold 

good,  — 
One  way  or  other,  truth  is  understood. 

The  still   sweet  influence  of  a  life  of 

prayer 
Quickens  their  hearts  who  never  bow 

the  knee,  — 
So  come  fresh  draughts  of  living  inland 

air 

To  weary  homesick  men,  far  out  at  sea. 
Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  O  man,  and 

lo  ! 
His  light  shall,  like  a  garment,  round 

thee  flow. 


The  selfishness  that  with  our  lives  has 

grown, 

Though  outward  grace  its  full  expres- 
sion bar, 

Will  crop  out  here  and  there  like  belts 

of  stone 

From  shallow  soil,  discovering  what 
we  are. 

The  thing  most  specious  cannot  stead 
the  true,  — 

Who  would  appear  clean,  must  be  clean 
all  through. 

In  vain  doth  Satan  say,  "  My  heart  is 

glad, 

I  wear  of  Paradise  the  morning  gem  ;  " 
While  on  his  brow,  magnificently  sad, 

Hangs  like  a  crag  his  blasted  diadem. 
Still  doth  the  truth  the  hollow  He  invest, 
And  all  the  immortal  ruin  stands  con- 
fessed. 


TWO  TRAVELERS. 

Two  travelers,  meeting  by  the  way, 
Arose,  and  at  the  peep  of  day 
Brake  bread,  paid  reckoning,  and  they 
say 

Set  out  together,  and  so  trode 
Till  where  upon  the  forking  road 
A  gray  and  good  old  man  abode. 

There  each  began  his  heart  to  strip, 
And  all  that  light  companionship 
That  cometh  of  the  eye  and  lip 

Had  sudden  end,  for  each  began 
To  ask  the  gray  and  good  old  man 
Whither  the  roads  before  «hem  ran. 

One,  as  they  saw,  was  shining  bright, 
With  such  a  great  and  gracious  light, 
It  seemed  that  heaven  must  be  in  sight. 

"  This,"  said  the  old  man,  "  doth  begin 
Full  sweetly,  but  its  end  is  in 
The  dark  and  desert-place  of  sin. 

"  And  this,  that  seemeth  all  to  lie 
In  gloomy  shadow,  —  by-and-by, 
Maketh  the  gateway  of  the  sky. 

"  Bide  ye  a  little  ;  fast  and  pray, 
And  'twixt  the  good  and  evil  way, 
Choose  ye,  my  brethren,  this  day." 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And  as  the  day  was  at  the  close 
The  two  wayfaring  men  arose, 
And   each   the  road   that   pleased  him 
chose. 

One  took  the  pathway  that  began 
So  brightly,  and  so  smoothly  ran 
Through  flowery  fields,  —  deluded  man ! 

Ere  long  he  saw,  alas  !  alas  ! 

All  darkly,  and  as  through  a  glass, 

Flames,  and  not  flowers,  along  the  grass. 

Then  shadows  round  about  him  fell, 
And  in  his  soul  he  knew  full  well 
His  feet  were  taking  hold  on  hell. 

He  tried  all  vainly  to  retrace 

His  pathway  ;  horrors  blocked  the  place, 

And  demons  mocked  him  to  his  face. 

Broken  in  spirit,  crushed  in  pride, 
One  morning  by  the  highway-side 
He  fell,  and  all  unfriended,  died. 

The  other,  after  fast  and  prayer, 
Pursued  the  road  that  seemed  less  fair, 
And  peace  went  with  him,  unaware. 

And  when  the  old  man  saw  where  lay 
The  traveler's  choice,  he  said,  "  I  pray, 
Take  this  to  help  you  on  the  way  ; " 

And  gave  to  him  a  lovely  book, 
Wherein  for  guidance  he  must  look, 
He  told  him,  if  the  path  should  crook. 

And  so,  through  labyrinths  of  shade, 
When    terror    pressed,   or  doubt   dis- 
mayed, 
He  walked  in  armor  all  arrayed. 

• 

So,  over  pitfalls  traveled  he, 
And  passed  the  gates  of  harlotry, 
Safe  with  his  heavenly  company. 

And  when  the  road  did  low  descend, 
He  found  a  good  inn,  and  a  friend, 
And  made  a  comfortable  end. 


THE   BLIND   TRAVELER. 

A  POOR  blind  man  was   traveling   one 

day, 

The  guiding  staff  from  out  his  hand 
was  gone, 


And  the  road  crooked,  so   he  lost  his 

way, 

And  the  night  fell,  and  a  great  storm 
came  on. 

He   was   not,   therefore,   troubled   and 

afraid, 
Nor  did  he  vex  the  silence  with  his 

cries, 
But  on   the  rainy  grass  his  cheek   he 

laid, 

And  waited  for  the   morning  sun  to 
rise. 

Saying   to    his   heart,  —  Be    still,   my 

heart,  and  wait, 

For  if  a  good  man  happen  to  go  by, 
He  will  not  leave  us  to  our  dark  es- 
tate 

And  the  cold  cover  of  the  storm,  to 
die; 

But  he  will  sweetly  take  us  by  the  hand, 
And   lead    us  back  into  the  straight 

highway  ; 

Full  soon  the  clouds  will  have  evan- 
ished, and 

All   the  wide  east  be  blazoned  with 
the  day. 

And  we  are  like  that  blind  man,  all  of 

us,— 
Benighted,  lost  !  But  while  the  storm 

doth  fall 
Shall  we   not   stay  our  sinking   hearts 

up,  thus.  — 

Above  us  there  is  One  who  sees  it 
all; 

And  if  His  name  be  Love,  as  we  are 
told, 

He  will  not  leave  us  to  unequal  strife  ; 
But  to  that  city  with  the  streets  of  gold 

Bring  us,  and  give  us  everlasting  life. 


MY   GOOD   ANGEL. 

VERY  simple  are  my  pleasures,  — 
O  good  angel,  stay  with  me, 
While  I  number  what  they  be, — 

Easy  't  is  to  count  my  treasures. 

Easy  't  is,  —  they  are  not  many  : 
Friends  for  love  and  company, 
O  good  angel  grant  to  me  ; 

Strength  to  work  ;  and  js  there  any 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


Man  or  woman,  evil  seeing 
In  my  daily  walk  and  way, 
Grant,  and  give  me^grace  to  pray 

Fur  a  less  imperfect  b'eing. 

Grant  a  larger  light,  and  better, 
To  inform  my  foe  and  me, 
So  we  quickly  shall  agree  ; 

Grant  forgiveness  to  my  debtor. 

Make  my  heart,  I  pray,  of  kindness 
Always  full,  as  clouds  of  showers  ; 

Keep  my  mortal  eyes  from  blindness  ; 
I  would  see  the  sun  and  flowers. 

From  temptation  pray  deliver  ; 

And,  good  angel,  grant  to  me 
That  my  heart  be  grateful  ever  : 

Herein  all  my  askings  be. 


CARE. 

CARE  is  like  a  husbandman 

Who  doth  guard  our  treasures  : 

And  the  while,  all  ways  he  can, 
Spoils  our  harmless  pleasures. 

Loving  hearts  and  laughing  brows, 
Most  he  seeks  to  plunder, 

And  each  furrow  that  he  ploughs 
Turns  the  roses  under. 


MORE   LIFE. 

WHEN  spring -time  prospers  in  the 
grass, 

And  fills  the  vales  with  tender  bloom, 
And  light  winds  whisper  as  they  pass 

Of  sunnier  days  to  come  : 

In  spite  of  all  the  joy  she  brings 
To  flood  and  field,  to  hill  and  grove, 

This  is  the  song  my  spirit  sings,  — 
More  light,  more  life,  more  love  ! 

And  when,  her  time  fulfilled,  she  goes 
So  gently  from  her  vernal  place, 

And  meadow  wide  and  woodland  glows 
With  sober  summer  grace  : 

When  on  the  stalk  the  ear  is  set, 
With  all  the  harvest  promise  bright, 

My  spirit  sings  the  old  song  yet,  — 
More  love,  more  life,  more  light. 
5 


When  stubble  takes  the  place  of  grain, 
And    shrunken    streams    steal    slow 
along, 

And  all  the  faded  woods  complain 
Like  one  who  suffers  wrong  ; 

When  fires  are  lit,  and  everywhere 
The  pleasures  of  the  household  rife, 

My  song  is  solemnized  to  prayer,  — 
More  love,  more  light,  more  life  ! 


CONTRADICTORY. 

WE  contradictory  creatures 
Have  something  in  us  alien  to  our  birth, 
That  doth  suffuse  us  with  the  infinite, 

While  downward  through  our  natures 
Run   adverse   thoughts,  that   only  find 
delight 

In  the  poor  perishable  things  of  earth. 

Blindly  we  feel  about 
Our  little  circle,  —  ever  on  the  quest 
Of   knowledge,   which   is   only,  at   the 

best, 

Pushing   the   boundaries   of  our    igno- 
rance out. 

But  while  we  know  all  things  are  mira- 
cles, 

And  that  we  cannot  set 
An  ear  of  corn,   nor  tell   a  blade  of 

grass 

The  way  to  grow,  our  vanity  o'erswells 
The  limit  of  our  wisdom,  and  we  yet 
Audaciously  o'erpass 
This  narrow  promontory 
Of  low,  dark  land,  into  the  unseen  glory, 

And  with  unhallowed  zeal 
Unto  our  fellow-men  God's  judgments 
deal. 

Sometimes  along  the  gloom 
We  meet  a  traveler,  striking  hands  with 

whom, 
Maketh  a  little  sweet  and  tender  light 

To  bless  our  sight, 
And  change  the  clouds  around  us  and 

above 
Into  celestial  shapes,  —  and  this  is  love. 

Morn  cometh,  trailing  storms, 
Even    while    she    wakes    a    thousand 

grateful  psalms 
And  with  her  golden  calms 
All  the  wide  valley  fills ; 


66 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


Darkly  they  lie  below 
The  purple  fire,  —  the  glow, 
Where,  on  the  high  tops  of  the  eastern 

hills, 
She  rests  her  cloudy  arms. 

And  we  are  like  the  morning,  —  heav- 
enly light 
Blowing  about  our  heads,  and  th'  dumb 

night 
Before   us   and  behind   us ;    ceaseless 

ills 
Make  up  our  years  ;  and  as  from  off  the 

hills, 
The  white  mists  melt,  and  leave  them 

bare  and  rough, 
So  melt  from  us   the  fancies   of  our 

youth 
Until  we  stand  against  the  last  black 

truth 
Naked  and  cold,  and  desolate  enough. 


THIS   IS  ALL. 

TRYING,  trying  —  always  trying-— 
Falling  clown  to  save  a  fall  ; 

Living  by  the  dint  of  dying,  — 
This  is  all ! 

Giving,  giving  —  always  giving  — 
( rathcring  just  abroad  to  cast ; 
Dying  by  the  dint  of  living 
N  At  the  last ! 

Sighing,  smiling  —  smiling,  sighing  — 
Sun  in  shade,  and  shade  in  sun  ; 

Dying,  living  —  living,  dying  — 
Both  in  one ! 

Hoping  in  our  very  fearing, 
Striving  hard  against  our  strife  ; 

Drifting  in  the  stead  of  steering,  — 
This  is  life  ! 

Seeming  to  believe  in  seeming, 
Half  disproving,  to  approve  ; 

Knowing    that   we    dream,    in    dream- 
ing.— 
This  is  love  ! 

Being  in  our  weakness  stronger,  — 
Living  where  there  is  no  breath  ; 

Feeling  harm  can  harm  no  longer,  — 
This  is  death. 


IN  VAIN. 

DOWN   the  peach-tree  slid 

The  milk-white  drops  of  th'  dew, 

All  in  that  merry  time  of  th'  year 
When  the  world  is  made  anew. 

The  daisy  dressed  in  white, 
The  paw-paw  flower  in  brown, 

And  th'   violet  sat  by   her  lover, 

brook, 
With  her  golden  eyelids  down. 


th1 


Gayly  its  own  best  hue 

Shone  in  each  leaf  and  stem,  — 
Gayly  the  children  rolled  on  th'  grass, 

With  their  shadows  after  them. 

I  said,  Be  sweet  for  me, 

0  little  wild  flowers  !  for  I 

Have  larger  need,  and  shut  in  myself, 

1  wither  and  waste  and  die  ! 

Pity  me,  sing  for  me  ! 

I  cried  to  the  tuneful  bird  ; 
My  heart  is  full  of  th'  spirit  of  song, 

And  I  cannot  sing  a  word  ! 

Like  a  buried  stream  that  longs 
Through  th'  upper  world  to  run, 

And  kiss  the  dawn  in  her  rosy  mouth, 
And  lie  in  th'  light  of  th'  sun ; 

So  in  me,  is  my  soul, 

Wasting  in  darkness  the  hours, 
Ever  fretted  and  sullen  and  sad 

With  a  sense  of  its  unused  powers. 

In  vain  !  each  little  flower 

Must  be  sweet  for  itself,  nor  part 

With   its   white   or   brown,    and   every 

bird 
Must  sing  from  its  own  full  heart. 


BEST,   TO   THE   BEST. 

THE  wind  blows  where  it  listeth, 
Out  of  the  east  and  west, 

And    the   sinner's   way  is   as   dark 

death, 
And  life  is  best,  to  the  best. 

The  touch  of  evil  corrupteth ; 
Tarry  not  on  its  track  ; 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


67 


The  grass  where  the  serpent  crawls  is 

stirred 
As  if  it  grew  on  his  back. 

To  know  the  beauty  of  cleanness 

The  heart  must  be  clean  and  sweet ; 

We  must  love  our  neighbor  to  get  his 

love,  — 
As  we  measure,  he  will  mete. 

(Cold  black  crusts  to  the  beggar, 

A  cloak  of  rags  and  woe  ; 
And  the  furrows  are  warm  to  the  sower's 
feet, 

And  his  bread  is  white  as  snow. 

fCan  blind  eyes  see  the  even, 

As  he  hangs  on  th'  day's  soft  close, 

Like  a  lusty  boy  on  his  mother's  neck, 
Bright  in  the  face  as  a  rose  ? 

The  grave  is  cold  and  cruel, — 
Rest,  pregnant  with  unrest ; 

And  woman  must  moan  and  man  must 

groan  ; 
But  life  is  best,  to  the  best. 


THORNS. 

I  DO  not  think  the  Providence  unkind 
That  gives  its  bad  things  to  this  life 

of  ours  ; 

They  are  the  thorns  whereby  we,  trav- 
elers blind, 
Feel  out  our  flowers. 

I  think  hate  shows  the  quality  of  love,  — 
That  wrong  attests  that  somewhere 

there  is  right : 
Do  not  the  darkest  shadows  serve  to 

prove 
The  power  of  light  ? 

On  tyrannous  ways  the  feet  of  Freedom 

press  ; 

The    green   bough    broken   off,   lets 
sunshine  in ; 

And  where  sin  is,  aboundeth  righteous- 
ness, 
Much  more  than  sin. 

Man  cannot  be  all  selfish  ;  separate  good 
Is  nowhere  found  beneath  the  shining 
sun< 

All  adverse  interests,  truly  understood, 
Resolve  to  one  ! 


I  do  believe  all  worship  doth  ascend,  — 
Whether  from  temple  floors  by  hea- 
then trod, 
Or  from   the   shrines  where   Christian 

praises  blend,  — 
To  the  true  God, 

Blessed  forever":  that  His  love  prepares 
The  raven's  food ;  the  sparrow's  fall 
doth  see ; 

And,  simple,  sinful  as  I  am,  He  cares 
Even  for  me. 


OLD   ADAM. 

THE  wind   is  blowing  cold  from   the 
west, 

And  your  hair  is  gray  and  thin ; 
Come    in,    Old    Adam,   and    shut    the 
door,  — 

Come  in,  old  Adam,  come  in  ! 
"  The  wind  is  blowing  out  o'  the  west, 

Cold,  cold,  and  my  hair  is  thin; 
But  it  is  not  there,  that  face  so  fair, 

And  why  should  I  go  in  ?  " 

The  wind    is   blowing  cold  from  the 
west ; 

The  day  is  almost  gone  ; 
The  cock  is  abed,  the  cattle  fed, 

And  the  night  is  coming  on  ! 
Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  shut  the  door, 

And  leave  without  your  care. 
"  Nay,  nay,  for  the  sun  of   my  life  is 
clown, 

And  the  night  is  everywhere." 

The  cricket  chirps,  and  your  chair  is  set 
Where    the    fire    shines   warm    and 

clear  : 
Come  in,  old  Adam,  and  you  will  forget 

It  is  not  the  spring  o'  the  year. 
Come   in  !    the   wind   blows  wild  from 

the  west, 

And  your  hair  is  gray  and  thin. 
"  'T  is  not  there  now,  that  sweet,  sweet 

brow, 
And  why  should  I  go  in  ?  " 


SOMETIMES. 

SOMETIMES  for  days 
Along   the   fields   that  I  of  time  have 
leased, 


68 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


I  go,  nor  find  a  single  leaf  increased  ; 

And  hopeless,  graze 
With  forehead  stooping  downward  like 
a  beast. 

0  heavy  hours  ! 

My  life  seems  all  a  failure,  and  I  sigh, 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do,  but 

die? 

So  small  my  powers 
That  I  can  only  stretch  them  to  a  cry  ! 

But  while  I  stretch 
What  strength  I  have,  though  only  to  a 

cry, 
I  gain  an  utterance  that  men  know  me 

by ; 

Create,  and  fetch 
A  something  out  of  chaos,  — that  is  I. 

Good  comes  to  pass 
We  know  not  when  nor  how,  for,  look- 
ing to 
What  seemed  a    barren  waste,   there 

starts  to  view 
Some  bunch  of  grass, 
Or  snarl  of  violets,  shining  with  the  dew. 

1  do  believe 

The  very  impotence  to  pray,  is  prayer  ; 
The  hope  that  all  will  end,  is  in  despair, 

And  while  we  grieve, 
Comfort  abideth  with  us,  unaware. 


Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful, 
So  cares  must  needs  abound  ; 

The  vine  that  bears  too  many  flowers 
Will  trail  upon  the  ground. 


THE  SEA-SIDE   CAVE. 

"  A  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  the  voice,  and  that 
which  hath  wings  tell  the  matter/' 

AT  the  dead  of  night  by  the  side  of  the 

Sea 

I  met  my  gray-haired  enemy,  — 
The  glittering  light  of  his  serpent  eye 
Was  all  I  had  to  see  him  by. 

At    the    dead    of    night,    and    stormy 

weather, 

We  went  into  a  cave  together, — 
Into  a  cave  by  the  side  of  the  Sea, 
And  —  he  never  came  out  with  me  ! 


The  flower  that  up  through  the  April 

mould 

Comes  like  a  miser  dragging  his  gold, 
Never  made  spot  of  earth  so  bright 
As   was   the   ground   in  the  cave    that 

night. 

Dead  of  night,  and  stormy  weather  ! 
Who  should  see  us  going  together 
Under  the  black  and  dripping  stone 
Of  the  cave  from  whence  I  came  alone  1 

Next  day  as  my  boy  sat  on  my  knee 
He  picked  the  gray  hairs  off  from  me, 
And  told  with  eyes  brimful  of  fear 
How  a  bird  in  the  meadow  near 

Over  her  clay-built  nest  had  spread 
Sticks  and  leaves  all  bloody  red, 
Brought  from  a  cave  by  the  side  of  the 

Sea 
Where  some  murdered  man  must  be. 


THE  MEASURE  OF  TIME. 

A  iiKKATii,  like  the  wind's  breath,  may 
carry 

A  name  far  and  wide, 
But  the  measure  of  time  does  not  tally 

With  any  man's  pride. 

JT  is  not  a  wild  chorus  of  praises, 
Nor  chance,  nor  yet  fate,  — 

'T  is  the  greatness  born  with  him,  and 

in  him, 
That  makes  the  man  great. 

And  when  in  the  calm  self-possession 

That  birthright  confers, 
The  man  is  stretched  out  to  her  measure, 

Fame  claims  him  for  hers. 

Too  proud   to   fall   back  on   achieve- 
ment, 

With  work  in  his  sight, 
His  triumph  may  not  overtake  him 

This  side  of  the  night. 

And  men,  with  his  honors  about  them, 
His  grave-mound  may  pass, 

Nor  dream  what  a  great  heart  lies  under 
Its  short  knotty  grass. 

But  though  he  has  lived  thus  unpros- 

pered. 
And  died  thus,  alone, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


69 


His  face  may  not  always  be  hid  by 
A  hand-breadth  of  stone. 

The  long  years  are  wiser  than  any 

Wise  day  of  them  all, 
And  the   hero   at   last  shall  stand  up- 
right, — 

The  base  image  fall. 

The  counterfeit  may  for  a  season 

Deceive  the  wide  earth, 
But   the   lie,   waxing   great,   comes   to 
labor. 

And  truth  has  its  birth. 


IDLE   FEARS. 

IN  my  lost  childhood  old  folks  said  to 

me, 
"  Now  is  the  time  and  season  of  your 

bliss  ; 

All  joy  is  in  the  hope  of  joy  to  be, 
Not  in  possession  ;  and  in  after  years 
You  will  look  back  with  longing  sighs 

and  tears 
To  the  young  days  when  you  from  care 

were  free." 

It  was  not  true  ;  they  nurtured  idle  fears  ; 
I  never  saw  so  good  a  day  as  this  ! 

And  youth  and  I   have  parted  :    long 

ago 

I  looked  into  my  glass,  and  saw  one  day 
A  little  silver  line  that  told  me  so  : 
At  first  I  shut  my  eyes  and  cried,  and 

then 

I  hid  it  under  girlish  flowers,  but  when 
Persuasion  would  not  make  my  mate  to 

stay, 
[    bowed   my  faded    head,    and    said, 

"  Amen  !  " 
And  all  my  peace  is  since  she  went  away. 

My  window  opens  toward  the  autumn 

woods  ; 

I  see  the  ghosts  of  thistles  walk  the  air 
O'er  the  long,  level   stubble-land   that 

broods ; 
Beneath  the  herbless  rocks  that  jutting 

lie, 

Summer  has  gathered  her  white  family 
Of  shrinking  daisies ;  all  the  hills  are 

bare, 

And  in  the  meadows  not  a  limb  of  buds 
Through   the    brown    bushes    showeth 

anywhere. 


Dear,  beauteous  season,  we  must  say 
good-by, 

And  can  afford  to,  we  have  been  so  blest, 

And  farewells  suit  the  time ;  the  year 
doth  lie 

With  cloudy  skirts  composed,  and  pallid 
face' 

Hid  under  yellow  leaves,  with  touching 
grace, 

So  that  her  bright-haired  sweetheart  of 
the  sky 

The  image  of  her  prime  may  not  dis- 
place. 


Do  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil  — 
You  will  find  them  if  you  do  ; 

As  you  measure  for  your  neighbor 
He  will  measure  back  to  you. 

Look  for  goodness,  look  for  gladness, 
You  will  meet  them  all  the  while  ; 

If  you  bring  a  smiling  visage 
To  the  glass,  you  meet  a  smile. 


OUR     unwise     purposes     are     wisely 

crossed  ; 
Being  small  ourselves,  we  must  essay 

small  things  : 

Th'  adventurous  mote,  with  wide,  out- 
wearied  wings 
Crawling  across  a  water-drop,  is  lost. 


HINTS. 

Two  thirsty  travelers  chanced  one  day 

to  meet 
Where   a  spring   bubbled  from    the 

burning  sand ; 
One  drank  out  of  the  hollow  of  his 

hand, 
And  found  the  water  very  cool  and  sweet. 

The  other  waited  for  a  smith  to  beat 

And  fashion  for  his  use  a  golden  cup  ; 
And  while   he  waited,  fainting  in  the 

heat, 

The   sunshine   came  and  drank  the 
fountain  up  ! 

In  a  green  field  two  little  flowers  there 

were, 

And  both  were  fair  in  th'  face  and 
tender-eyed ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


One   took   the    light    and   dew   that 

heaven  supplied, 

And  all  the  summer  gusts  were  sweet 
with  her. 

The  other,  to  her  nature  false,  denied 
That  she  had  any  need  of  sun  and 

dew, 
And  hung  her  silly  head,  and  sickly 

grew, 

And   frayed    and   faded,    all   untimely 
died. 

A  vine  o'  th'  bean,  that  had  been  early 

wed 
To  a  tall  peach,  conceiving  that  he 

hid 
Her  glories  from  the  world,  unwisely 

slid 
Out  of  his  arms,  and  vainly  chafing,  said  : 


"  This  fellow  is  an  enemy  of  mine, 
And  dwarfs  me  with  his  shade  :  " 
would  not  see 


she 


That  she  was  made  a  vine,  and  not  a 

tree, 
And  that  a  tree  is  stronger  than  a  vine. 


TO   A   STAGNANT   RIVER. 

O  RIVER,  why  lie  with  your  beautiful 

face 
To  the  hill  ?     Can  you  move  him  away 

from  his  place  ? 
You  may  moan,  —  you  may  clasp  him 

with  soft  arms  forever, — 
He  will  still  be  a  flinty  hill,  —  you  be  a 

river. 

'T  is  willful,  't  is  wicked  to  waste  in  de- 
spair 

The  treasure  so  many  are  dying  to 
share, 

The  gifts  that  we  have,  Heaven  lends 
for  right  using, 

And  not  for  ignoring,  and  not  for  abus- 


Let  the  moss  have  his  love,  and  the  grass 

and  the  dew,  — 
By  God's  law  he  cannot  be  mated  with 

you. 
His  friend  is  the  stubble,  his  life  is  the 

dust, 
You   are   not   what   you   would, — you 

must  be  what  you  must. 


If   into   his  keeping  your  fortune   you 

cast, 
I   tell    you   the  end  will  be  hatred  at 

last, 
Or  death  through  stagnation  ;  your  rest 

is  in  motion  ; 
The  aim  of  your  being,  the  cloud  and 

the  ocean. 

Love  cannot  be  love,  with  itself  set  at 

strife  ; 
To  sin  against  Nature  is  death  and  not 

life. 
You  may  freeze  in  the  shadow  or  seethe 

in  the  sun, 
But  the  oil  and  the  water  will  not  be  at 

one. 

Your  pride  and  your  peace,  when  this 

passion  is  crossed, 
Will  pay  for  the  struggle  whatever  it 

cost ; 
But  though  earth  dissolve,  though  the 

heavens  should  fall, 
To  yourself,  your  Creator,  be  true  first 

of  all. 


APART  from  the  woes  that  are  dead  and 
gone, 

And  the  shadow  of  future  care, 
The  heaviest  yoke  of  the  present  hour 

Is  easy  enough  to  bear. 


COUNSEL. 

SEEK  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light, 

But  keep  unto  thine  own  : 
Do  what  thou  doest  with  thy  might, 

And  trust  thyself  alone  ! 

Work  for  some  good,  nor  idly  lie 

Within  the  human  hive  ; 
And  though  the   outward  man  should 
die, 

Keep  thou  the  heart  alive  ! 

Strive  not  to  banish  pain  and  doubt, 

In  pleasure's  noisy  din  ; 
The  peace  thou  seekest  for  without 

Is  only  found  within. 

If  fortune  disregard  thy  claim, 
By  worth,  her  slight  attest; 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELWG* 


Nor  blush  and  hang  the  head  for  shame 
When  thou  hast  done  thy  best. 

What  thy  experience  teaches  true, , 

Be  vigilant  to  heed  ; 
The  wisdom  that  we  suffer  to, 

Is  wiser  than  a  creed. 

Disdain  neglect,  ignore  despair, 
On  loves  and  friendships  gone 

Plant  thou  thy  feet,  as  on  a  stair, 
And  mount  right  up  and  on  ! 


LATENT  LIFE. 

THOUGH    never    shown    by    word    or 
deed, 

Within  us  lies  some  germ  of  power, 
As  lies  unguessed,  within  the  seed, 

The  latent  flower. 

And  under  every  common  sense 
That  doth  its  daily  use  fulfill, 

There  lies  another,  more  intense, 
And  beauteous  still. 

This  dusty  house,  wherein  is  shrined 
The  soul,  is  but  the  counterfeit 

Of  that  which  shall  be,  more  refined, 
And  exquisite. 

The  light  which  to  our  sight  belongs, 
Enfolds    a    light    more    broad    and 
clear ; 

Music  but  intimates  the  songs 
We  do  not  hear. 

The  fond  embrace,  the  tender  kiss 
Which  love  to  its  expression  brings, 

Are  but  the  husk  the  chrysalis 
Wears  on  its  wings. 

The  vigor  falling  to  decay, 

Hopes,  impulses  that  fade  and  die, 
Are  but  the  layers  peeled  away 

From  life  more  high. 

When  death  shall  come  and  disallow 
These  rough  and  ugly  masks  we  wear, 

I  think,  that  we  shall  be  as  now,  — 
Only  more  fair. 

And  He  who  makes  his  love  to  be 
Always  around  me,  sure  and  calm, 

Sees  what  is  possible  to  me, 
Not  what  I  am.  >, 


HOW  AND    WHERE. 

How  are  we  living  ? 
Like  herbs  in  a  garden  that  stand  in  a  row, 
And  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand 

there  and  grow  ? 
Our  powers  of  perceiving 
So  dull  and  so  dead, 
They  simply  extend  to  the  objects  about 

us,  — 
The  moth,  having  all  his  dark  pleasure 

without  us,  — 
The  worm  in  his  bed  ! 

If  thus  we  are  living, 
And  fading   and    falling,   and   rotting, 

alas  !  — 
Like  the  grass,  or  the  flowers  that  grow 

in  the  grass,  — 
Is  life  worth  our  having? 
The  insect  a-humming  — 
The  wild  bird  is  better,  that  sings  as  it 

flies,  — 
The  ox,  that  turns  up  his  great  face  to 

the  skies, 
When  the  thunder  is  coming. 

Where  are  we  living  ? 
In  passion,  and  pain,  and  remorse  do  we 

dwell,  — 

Creating,  yet  terribly  hating,  our  hell  ? 
No  triumph  achieving  ? 
No  grossness  refining  ? 
The  wild  tree  does  more  ;  for  his  coat 

of  rough  barks 
He  trims  with  green  mosses,  and  checks 

with  the  marks 
Of  the  long  summer  shining. 

We  're  dying,  not  living  : 
Our   senses   shut   up,   and    our  hearts 

faint  and  cold  ; 
Upholding  old  things  just  because  they 

are  old  ; 

Our  good  spirits  grieving, 
We  suffer  our  springs 
Of  promise  to  pass  without  sowing  the 

land, 
And  hungry  and  sad  in  the  harvest-time 

stand, 
Expecting  good  things  ! 


THE   FELLED   TREE. 

THEY  set  me  up,  and  bade  me  stand 
Beside  a  dark,  dark  sea, 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


In  the  befogged,  low-lying  land 
Of  this  mortality. 

I  slipped  my  roots  round  the  stony  soil 
Like  rings  on  the  hand  of  a  bride, 

And  my  boughs  took  hold  of  the  sum- 
mer's smile 
And  grew  out  green  and  wide. 

Crooked,  and  shaggy  on  all  sides, 

I  was  homeliest  of  trees, 
But  the   cattle   rubbed   their   speckled 
hides 

Against  my  knotty  knees  ; 

And  lambs,  in  white  rows  on  the  grass, 
Lay  down  within  my  shade  ; 

So  I  knew,  all  homely  as  I  was, 
For  a  good  use  I  was  made. 

And  my  contentment  served  me  well ; 

My  heart  grew  strong  and  sweet, 
And  my  shaggy  bark  cracked  off  and 
fell 

In  layers  at  my  feet. 

I  felt  when  the  darkest  storm  was  rife 
The  day  of  its  wrath  was  brief, 

And  that  I  drew  from  the  centre  of  life 
The  life  of  my  smallest  leaf. 

At  last  a  woodman  came  one  day 
With  axe  to  a  sharp  edge  ground, 

And   hewed   at  my  heart  till    I   stood 

a-sway, 
But  I  never  felt  the  wound. 

I  knew  immortal  seed  was  sown 

Within  me  at  my  birt-i, 
And  I  fell  without  a  single  groan, 

With  my  green  face  to  the  earth. 

Now  all  men  pity  me,  and  must, 

Who  see  me  lie  so  low, 
But  the  Power  that  changes  me  to  dust 

Is  the  same  that  made  me  grow. 


A   DREAM. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  a  plot  of  ground, 
Once  when  I  chanced  asleep  to  drop, 

And  that  a  green  hedge  fenced  it  round, 
Cloudy  with  roses  at  the  top. 

I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  rise,  — 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach,  — 


And  spring  with  summer  in  her  eyes 
Making  the  chiefest  charm  of  each. 

A  thousand  vines  were  climbing  o'er 
The  hedge,  I  thought,  but  as  I  tried 

To  pull  them  down,  for  evermore 
The  flowers  dropt  off  the  other  side  ! 

Waking,  I  said,  these  things  are  signs 
Sent  to  instruct  us  that  't  is  ours 

Duly  to  keep  and  dress  our  vines.  — 
Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 

And  when  the  angel  feared  of  all 
Across  my  hearth  its  shadow  spread, 

The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Has  bloomed  the  other  side,  I  said. 


WORK. 

DOWN  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 

Over  and  over  and  over  ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Turn  out  the  bright  red  clover. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall ; 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 

With  hand  on  the  spade  and  heart  in 
the  sky, 

Dress  the  ground,  and  till  it ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  brown  and  dry, 

Turn  out  the  golden  millet. 
Work,  and  your  house  shall  be  duly  fed  ; 

Work,  and  rest  shall  be  won  ; 
I  hold  that  a  man  had  better  be  dead 

Than  alive,  when  his  work  is  done  ! 

Down  and  up,  and  up  and  down, 

On  the  hill-top,  low  in  the  valley  ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Turn  out  the  rose  and  lily. 
Work  with  a  plan,  or  without  a  plan, 

And  your  ends  they  shall  be  shaped 

true  ; 

Work,  and  learn   at  first   hand,  like  a 
man,  — 

The  best  way  to  know  is  to  do  ! 

Down  and  up  till  life  shall  close, 

Ceasing  not  your  praises  ; 
Turn  in  the  wild  white  winter  snows, 

Turn  out  the  sweet  spring  daisies. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall ; 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND   FEELING. 


For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 
And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 


COMFORT. 

BOATMAN,  boatman  !  my  brain  is  wild, 
As  wild  as  the  stormy  seas  ; 

My  poor   little   child,  my   sweet  little 

child, 
Is  a  corpse  upon  my  knees. 

No  holy  choir  to  sing  so  low, 
No  priest  to  kneel  in  prayer, 

No  tire-woman  to  help  me  sew 
A  cap  for  his  golden  hair. 

Dropping  his  oars  in  the  rainy  sea, 

The  pious  boatman  cried, 
Not  without  Him  who  is  life  to  thee 

Could  the  little  child  have  died  ! 

His  grace  the  same,  and  the  same  His 

power, 

Demanding  our  love  and  trust, 
Whether  He  makes  of  the  dust  a  flower, 


On  the  land  and  the  water,  ail  in  all, 
The  strength  to  be  still  or  pray, 

To  blight  the  leaves  in  their  time  to  fall, 
Or  light  up  the  hills  with  May. 


FAITH    AND   WORKS. 

NOT  what  we  think,  but  what  we  do, 
Makes   saints   of   us :    all    stiff   and 
cold, 

The  outlines  of  the  corpse  show  through 
The  cloth  of  gold. 

And  in  despite  the  outward  sin,  — 
Despite  belief  with  creeds  at  strife, — 

The  principle  of  love  within 
Leavens  the  life. 

For,  't  is  for  fancied  good,  I  claim, 
That   men   do  wrong,  —  not  wrong's 

desire  ; 
Wrapping   themselves,    as   't   were,    in 

flame 
To  cheat  the  fire. 

Not  what  God  gives,  but  what  He  takes, 
Uplifts  us  to  the  holiest  height ; 


73 

life's   current 


On   truth's  rough   crags 

breaks 
To  diamond  light. 


From  transient  evil  I  do  trust 
That  we  a  final  good  shall  draw  ; 

That  in  confusion,  death,  and  dust 
Are  light  and  law. 

That  He  whose  glory  shines  among 
The  eternal  stars,  'descends  to  mark 

This  foolish  little  atom  swung 
Loose  in  the  dark. 

But  though  I  should  not  thus  receive 
A  sense  of  order  and  control, 

My  God,  I  could  not  disbelieve 
My  sense  of  soul. 

For  though,  alas  !  I  can  but  see 
A  hand's  breadth  backward,  or  before, 

I  am,  and  since  1  am,  must  be 
For  evermore. 


THE   RUSTIC    PAINTER. 

His  sheep  went  idly  over  the  hills,  — 

Idly  down  and  up,  — 
As  he  sat  and  painted  his  sweetheart's 
face 

On  a  little  ivory  cup. 

All  round  him  roses  lay  in  the  grass 
That  were  hardly  out  of  buds  ; 

For  sake  of   her   mouth  and   cheek,    I 

knew 
He  had  murdered  them  in  the  woods. 

The  ant,  that  good  little  housekeeper, 

Was  not  at  work  so  hard  ; 
And  yet  the  semblance  of  a  smile 

Was  all  of  his  reward  : 

And  the  golden-belted  gentleman 

That  travels  in  the  air, 
Hummed  not  so  sweet   to  the  clover- 
buds 

As  he  to  his  picture  there. 

The  while  for  his  ivory  cup  he  made 

An  easel  of  his  knee, 
And  painted  his  little  sweetheart's  face 

Truly  and  tenderly. 

Thus  we  are  marking  on  all  OUT  work 
Whatever  we  have  of  grace  ; 


74 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


As  the  rustic  painted  his  ivory  cup 
With  his  little  sweetheart's  face. 


ONE  OF  MANY. 

I  KNEW  a  man  —  I  know  him  still 
In  part,  in  all  I  ever  knew,  — 

"Whose  life  runs  counter  to  his  will, 
Leaving  the  things  he  fain  would  do, 

Undone.      His    hopes    are    shapes   of 
sands, 

That  cannot  with  themselves  agree  ; 
As  one  whose  eager  outstretched  hands 

Take  hold  on  water  —  so  is  he. 

Fame  is  a  bauble,  to  his  ken  ; 

Mirth  cannot  move  his  aspect  grim  ; 
The  holidays  of  other  men 

Are  only  battle-days  to  him. 

He  locks  his  heart  within  his  breast, 

Believing  life  to  such  as  he 
Is  but  a  change  of  ills,  at  best,  — 

A  crossed  and  crazy  tragedy. 

His  cheek  is  wan  ;  his  limbs  are  faint 
With  fetters  which  they  never  wore  ; 

No  wheel  that  ever  crushed  a  saint, 
But  breaks  his  body  o'er  and  o'er. 

Though  woman's  grace  he  never  sought 
By  tender  look,  or  word  of  praise, 

He  dwells  upon  her  in  his  thought, 
With  all  a  lover's  lingering  phrase. 

A  very  martyr  to  the  truth, 

All  that 's  best  in  him  is  belied  ; 

Humble,  yet  proud  withal  ;  in  sooth 
His  pride  is  his  disdain  of  pride. 

He  sees  in  what  he  does  amiss 

A  continuity  of  ill  ; 
The  next  life  dropping  out  of  this, 

Stained  with  its  many  colors  still. 

His  kindliest  pity  is  for  those 

Who  are  the  slaves  of  guilty  lusts ; 

And  virtue,  shining  till  it  shows 
Another's  frailty,  he  distrusts. 

Nature,  he  holds,  since  time  began 
Has  been  reviled,  —  misunderstood  ; 

And  that  we  first  must  love  a  man 
To  judge  him,  —  be  he  bad  or  good. 


Often  his  path  is  crook'd  and  low. 

And  is  so  in  his  own  despite  ; 
For  still  the  path  he  meant  to  go 

Runs   straight,   and    level   with    the 
right. 

No  heart  has  he  to  strive  with  fate 
For  less  things  than  our  great  men 
gone 

Achieved,  who,  with  their  single  weight, 
Turned  Time's  slow  wheels  a  century 


His  waiting  silence  is  his  prayer  ; 

His  darkness  is  his  plea  for  light ; 
And  loving  all  men  everywhere 

He  lives,  a  more  than  anchorite. 

O  friends,  if  you  this  man  should  see, 
Be  not  your  scorn  too  hardly  hurled, 

Believe  me,  whatsoe'er  he  be, 

There  be  more  like  him  in  the  world. 


THE  SHADOW. 

ONE  summer  night, 
The   full   moon,   'tired   in    her  golden 

cloak, 
Did    beckon    me,   I    thought ;    and   I 

awoke, 
And  saw  a  light, 

Most  soft  and  fair, 

Shine  in  the  brook,  as  if,  in  love's  dis- 
tress, 
The  parting  sun  had  shear'd  a  dazzling 

tress. 
And  left  it  there. 

Toward  the  sweet  banks 
Of  the  bright  stream  straightly  I  bent 

my  way  ; 
And   in   my   heart   good   thoughts  the 

while  did  stay, 
Giving  God  thanks. 

The  wheat-stocks  stood 
Along  the  field  like  little  fairy  men, 
And   mists    stole,    white    and  bashful, 
through  the  glen, 

As  maidens  would. 

In  rich  content 

My  soul  was  growing  toward  immortal 
height, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


75 


When,  lo  !  I  saw  that  by  me,  through 

the  light, 
A  shadow  went. 

I  stopped,  afraid  : 

It  was  the  bad  sign  of  some  evil  done  : 
That  stopping,  too,  right  swiftly  did  I 
run  ; 

So  did  the  shade. 

At  length  I  drew 
Close    to   the   bank   of    the   delightful 

brook, 
And  sitting  in  the  moonshine,  turn'd  to 

look; 
It  sat  there  too. 

Ere  long  I  spied 
A  weed  with  goodly  flowers  upon   its 

top  ; 
And  when  I  saw  that  such  sweet  things 

did  drop 
Black  shadows,  cried,  — 

Lo  !  I  have  found, 
Hid  in  this  ugly  riddle,  a  good  sign  ; 
My  life  is  twofold,  earthly  and  divine,  — 

Buried  and  crown'd. 

Sown  darkly  ;  raised 
Light  within   light,   when   death   from 

mortal  soil 

Undresses   me,    and   makes   me  spirit- 
ual ;  — 
Dear  Lord,  be  praised. 


THE  UNWISE  CHOICE. 

Two  young  men,  when  I  was  poor, 
Came  and  stood  at  my  open  door  ; 

One  said  to  me,  "  I  have  gold  to  give  ;  " 
And    one,   "  I    will    love  you  while    I 
live  ! " 

My  sight  was  dazzled  ;  woe  's  the  day  ! 
And  1  sent  the  poor  young  man  away  ; 

Sent  him  away,  I  know  not  where, 
And  my  heart  wept  with  him,  unaware. 

He  did  not  give  me  any  sighs, 
But  he  left  his  picture  in  my  eyes  ; 

And  in  my  eyes  it  has  always  been  : 
I  have  no  heart  to  keep  it  in  ! 


Beside  the  lane  with  hedges  sweet, 
Where  we  parted,  never  more  to  meet, 

He  pulled  a  flower  of  love's  own  hue, 
And  where  it  had  been  came  out  two  ! 

And  in  th'  grass  where  he  stood,  for 

years, 
The  dews  of  th'  morning  looked  like 

tears. 

Still  smiles  the  house  where  I  was  born 
Among  its  fields  of  wheat  and  corn. 

Wheat  and  corn  that  strangers  bind, — 
I  reap  as  I  sowed,  and  I  sowed  to  th' 
wind. 

As  one  who  feels  the  truth  break  through 
His  dream,  and  knows  his  dream  untrue, 

I  live  where  splendors  shine,  and  sigh, 
For  the  peace  that  splendor  cannot  buy  ; 

Sigh  for  the  day  I  was  rich  tho'  poor, 
And  saw  th'  two  young  men  at  my  door  I 


PROVIDENCE. 

"  From  seeming  evil,  still  educing  good." 

THE  stone  upon  the  wayside  seed  that 

fell, 
And  kept  the  spring  rain  from  it,  kept 

it  too 
From  the   bird's   mouth  ;   and   in  that 

silent  cell 
It.  quickened,  after  many  days,  and 

grew, 

Till,  by-and-by,  a  rose,  a  single  one, 
Lifted  its  little  face  into  the  sun. 

It  chanced  a  wicked  man   approached 

oneway, 
And  saw  the  tender  piteous  look  it 

wore  : 

Perhaps  one  like  it  somewhere  far  away 

Grew  in  a  garden-bed,  or  by  the  door 

That  he    in    childish  days  had  played 

around, 
For  his  knees,  trembling,  sunk  upon  the 

ground. 

Then,  o'er  this  piece  of  bleeding  earth, 

the  tears 
Of  penitence  were  wrung,  until  at  last 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


The  golden  key  of  love,  that  sin  for  years 

In  his  unquiet  soul  had  rusted  fast, 
Was  loosened,  and  his  heart,  that  very 

hour, 
Opened  to  God's  good  sunshine,  like  a 

flower. 


THE  LIVING    PRESENT. 

FRTENDS,  let  us  slight  no  pleasant  spring 
That  bubbles  up  in  life's  dry  sands, 

And  yet  be  careful  what  good  thing 
We  touch  with  sacrilegious  hands. 

Our  blessings   should   be    sought,   not 

claimed,  — 
Cherished,  not  watched  with  jealous 

eye; 

Love  is  too  precious  to  be  named, 
Save  with  a  reverence  deep  and  high. 

In  all  that  lives,  exists  the  power 
To  avenge  the  invasion  of  its  right ; 

We  cannot  bruise  and  break  our  flower, 
And  have  our  flower  alive  and  bright. 

Let  us  think  less  of  what  appears,  — 
More  of  what  is  ;  for  this,  hold  I, 

It  is  the  sentence  no  man  hears 

That  makes  us  live,  or  makes  us  die. 

Trust  hearsay  less  ;  seek  more  to  prove 
And   know  if    things   be  what   they 

seem  ; 

Not  sink  supinely  in  some  groove, 
And  hope  and  hope,  and  dream  and 
dream. 

Some    days    must    needs   be    fu'i    of 
gloom, 

Yet  must  we  use  them  as  we  may  ; 
Talk  less  about  the  years  to  come,  — 

Live,  love,  and  labor  more,  to-day. 

What  our  hand  findeth,  do  with  might ; 

Ask  less  for  help,  but  stand  or  fall, 
Each  one  of  us,  in  life's  great  fight, 

As  if  himself  and  God  were  all. 


THE   WEAVER'S   DREAM. 

HE  sat  all  alone  in  his  dark  little  room, 
His  fingers   aweary  with  work  at  the 
loom, 


His  eyes  seeing  not  the  fine  threads,  for 

the  tears, 
As  he  carefully  counted  the  months  and 

the  years 
He  had  been  a  poor  weaver. 

Not  a  traveler  went  on  the  dusty  high- 
way, 

But  he  thought,  "  He  has  nothing  to  do 
but  be  gay  ;  " 

No  matter   how  burdened  or  bent  he 
might  be, 

The  weaver  believed  him  more  happy 

than  he, 
And  sighed  at  his  weaving. 

He  saw  not  the  roses  so  sweet  and  so  red 
That  looked  through    his  window ;    he 

thought  to  be  dead 
And  carried  away  from  his  dark  little 

room, 

Wrapt  up  in  the  linen  he  had  in  his  loom, 
Were  better  than  weaving. 

Just  then  a  white  angel  came  out  of  the 

skies, 
And  shut  up  his  senses,  and  sealed  up 

his  eyes, 
And  bore  him  away  from  the  work  at 

his  loom 
In  a  vision,  and  left  him  alone  by  the 

tomb 
Of  his  dear  little  daughter. 

"  My  darling  !  "  he  cries,  "  what  a  bless- 
ing was  mine  ! 

How  I  sinned,  having  you,  against  good- 
ness divine  ! 

Awake  !     O  my  lost  one,  my  sweet  one, 
awake  ! 

And  I  never,  as  long  as  I  live,  for  your 

sake, 
WTill  sigh  at  my  weaving  !  " 

The  sunset  was   gilding  his  low  little 
room 

When  the  weaver  awoke  from  his  dream 
at  the  loom, 

And  close  at  his  knee  saw  a  dear  little 
head 

Alight  with  long  curls,  —  she  was  liv- 
ing, not  dead,  — 
His  pride  and  his  treasure. 

He  winds  the  fine  thread  on  his  shuttle 

anew, 
(At  thought  of  his  blessing  't  was  easy 

to  do,) 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


77 


And  sings  as  he  weaves,  for  the  joy  in 

his  breast, 
Peace  conieth  of  striving,  and  labor  is 

rest  : 
Grown  wise  was  the  weaver. 


NOT   NOW. 

THE  path  of  duty  I  clearly  trace, 
I  stand  with  conscience  face  to  face, 

And  all  her  pleas  allow  ; 
Calling  and  crying  the  while  for  grace,  — 
"  Some    other   time,    and   some    other 
place  : 

Oh,  not  to-day ;  not  now  !  " 

I  know  't  is  a  demon  boding  ill, 
I  know  I  have  power  to  do  if  I  will, 
And  I  put  my  hand  to  th'  plough  ; 
1  have  fair,  sweet  seeds  in  my  barn,  and 

lo! 
When   all    the    furrows  are   ready  to 

sow, 
The  voice  says,  "  Oh,  not  now  !  " 

My  peace  I  sell  at  the  price  of  woe ; 
In  heart  and  in  spirit  I  suffer  so, 

The  anguish  wrings  my  brow  ; 
But  still  I  linger  and  cry  for  grace, — 
"  Some    other    time,   and    some    other 
place  : 

Oh,  not  to-day  ;  not  now  !  " 

I  talk  to  my  stubborn  heart  and  say, 
The  work  I  must  do  I  will  do  to-day ; 

I  will  make  to  the  Lord  a  vow : 
And  I  will  not  rest  and  I  will  not  sleep 
Till  the  vow  I  have  vowed  I  rise  and 
keep  ; 

And  the  demon  cries,  "  Not  now  !  " 

And  so  the  days  and  the  years  go  by, 
And  so  I  register  lie  upon  lie, 

And  break  with  Heaven  my  vow  ; 
For  when  I  would  boldly  take  my  stand, 
This  terrible  demon  stays  my  hand,  — 

"  Oh,  not  to-day  :  not  now  !  " 


CRAGS. 

THERE  was  a  good  and  reverend  man 
Whose  day  of  life,  serene  and  bright, 

Was  wearing  hard  upon  the  gloom 
Beyond  which  we  can  see  no  light. 


And  as  his  vision  back  to  morn, 
And  forward  to  the  evening  sped, 

He  bowed  himself  upon  his  staff, 
And  with  his  heart  communing,  said  : 

From  mystery  on  to  mystery 

My  way  has  been  ;  yet  as  I  near 

The  eternal  shore,  against  the  sky 
These  crags  of  truth  stand  sharp  and 
clear. 

Where'er  its  hidden  fountain  be, 

Time  is  a  many-colored  jet 
Of  good  and  evil,  light  and  shade, 

And  we  evoke  the  things  we  get. 

The  hues  that  our  to-morrows  wear 
Are  by  cur  yesterdays  forecast ; 

Our  future  takes  into  itself 

The  true  impression  of  our  past. 

The  attrition  of  conflicting  thoughts 
To     clear     conclusions,    wears     the 
groove ; 

The  love  that  seems  to  die,  dies  not, 
But  is  absorbed  in  larger  love. 

We  cannot  cramp  ourselves  unharmed, 
In  bonds  of  iron,  nor  of  creeds  ; 

The  rights  that  rightfully  belong 
To  man,  are  measured  by  his  needs. 

The  daisy  is  entitled  to 

The  nurture  of  the  dew  and  light ; 
The  green  house  of  the  grasshopper 

Is  his  by  Nature's  sacred  right. 


MAN. 

IN  what  a  kingly  fashion  man  doth 
dwell : 

He  hath  but  to  prefer 

His  want,  and  Nature,  like  a  servitor, 
Maketh  him  answer  with  some  miracle. 

And  yet  his  thoughts  do  keep  along  the 

ground, 

And  neither  leap  nor  run, 
Though  capable  to  climb  above  the 

sun  ; 

He  seemeth  free,  and  yet  is  strangely 
bound. 

What  name  would  suit  his  case,  or  great 

or  small  ? 
Poor,  but  exceeding  proud  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Importunate   and   still,   humble   and 

loud  ; 
Most  wise,  and  yet  most  ignorant,  withal. 

The  world  that  lieth  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  a  great  emerald, 
Knoweth  the  law  by  which  she  is  up- 
held, 

And   in    her  motions    keepeth    steady 
there. 

But  in  his  foolishness  proud  man  defies 
The  law,  wherewith  is  bound 
The   peace    he   seeks,  and   fluttering 

moth-like  round 

Some  dangerous   light,   experimenting, 
dies. 

And  all  his  subtle  reasoning  can  obtain 

To  tell  his  fortune  by, 

Is  only  that  he  liveth  and  must  die, 
And  dieth  in  the  hope  to  live  again. 


TO  SOLITUDE. 

I  AM  weary  of  the  working. 

Weary  of  the  long  day's  heat ; 
To  thy  comfortable  bosom, 

Wilt  thou  take  me,  spirit  sweet  ? 

Weary  of  the  long,  blind  struggle 
For  a  pathway  bright  and  high,  — 

Weary  of  the  dimly  dying 

Hopes  that  never  quite  all  die. 

Weary  searching  a  bad  cipher 
For  a  good  that  must  be  meant ; 

Discontent  with  being  weary,  — 
Weary  with  my  discontent. 

I  am  weary  of  the  trusting 

Where     my     trusts     but     torments 

prove  ; 
Wilt   thou  keep  faith   with   me  ?    wilt 

thou 
Be  my  true  and  tender  love  ? 

I  am  weary  drifting,  driving 
Like  a  helmless  bark  at  sea  ; 

Kindly,  comfortable  spirit, 
Wilt  thou  give  thyself  to  me  ? 

Give  thy  birds  to  sing  me  sonnets  ? 

Give  thy  winds  my  cheeks  to  kiss  ? 
And  thy  mossy  rocks  to  stand  for 

The  memorials  of  our  bliss  ? 


I  in  reverence  will  hold  thee, 
Never  vexed  with  jealous  ills, 

Though  thy  wild  and  wimpling  waters 
Wind  about  a  thousand  hills. 


•THE  LAW  OF  LIBERTY. 

THIS  extent  hath  freedom's  ground,  • — 
In  my  freedom  I  am  bound 
Never  any  soul  to  wound. 

Not  my  own  :  it  is  not  mine, 

Lord,  except  to  make  it  thine, 

By  good  works  through  grace  divine. 

Not  another's  :  Thou  alone 
Keepest  judgment  for  thine  own; 
Only  unto  Thee  is  known 

What  to  pity,  what  to  blame  ; 
How  the  fierce  temptation  came  : 
What  is  honor,  what  is  shame. 

Right  is  bound  in  this  —  to  win 
Good  till  injury  begin  ; 
That,  and  only  that,  is  sin. 

Selfish  good  may  not  befall 
Any  man,  or  great  or  small ; 
Best  for  one  is  best  for  all. 

And  who  vainly  doth  desire 
Good  through  evil  to  acquire, 
In  his  bosom  taketh  fire. 

Wronging  no  man,  Lord,  nor  Thee 
Vexing,  I  do  pray  to  be 
In  my  soul,  my  body,  free. 

Free  to  freely  leave  behind 
When  the  better  things  I  find, 
Worser  things,  howe'er  enshrined. 

So  that  pain  may  peace  enhance, 

And  through  every  change  and  chance, 

I  upon  myself,  advance. 


MY  CREED. 

I  HOT.D  that  Christian  grace  abounds 
Where  charity  is  seen  ;  that  when 

We    climb    to    Heaven,    't  is    on    the 

rounds 
Of  love  to  men. 


1'OEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FELL1A  G. 


79 


I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 

A  selfish  scheme,  a  vain  pretence  ; 

Where  centre  is  not  —  can  there  be 
Circumference  ? 

This  I  moreover  hold,  and  dare 

Affirm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go, — 

Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 

Whether  it  be  the  lullabies 

That  charm  to  rest  the  nursling  bird, 
Or  that  sweet  confidence  of  sighs 

And  blushes,  made  without  a  word. 

W7hether  the  dazzling  and  the  flush 
Of  softly  sumptuous  garden  bowers, 

Or  by  some  cabin  door,  a  bush 
Of  ragged  flowers. 

JT  is  not  the  wide  phylactery, 

Nor  stubborn  fast,  nor  stated  prayers, 
That  make  us  saints  :  we  judge  the  tree 

By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 
From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 

I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 
Is  dry  as  dust. 


OPEN  SECRETS. 

THE  truth  lies  round  about  us,  all 
Too  closely  to  be  sought,  — 

So  open  to  our  vision  that 
'T  is  hidden  to  our  thought. 

We  know  not  what  the  glories 
Of  the  grass,  the  flower,  may  be  ; 

We  needs  must  struggle  for  the  sight 
Of  what  we  always  see. 

Waiting  for  storms  and  whirlwinds, 
And  to  have  a  sign  appear, 

Wre  deem  not  God  is  speaking  in 
The  still  small  voice  we  hear. 

In  reasoning  proud,  blind  leaders  of 
The  blind,  through  life  we  go, 

And  do  not  know  the  things  we  see, 
Nor  see  the  things  we  know. 

Single  and  indivisible, 

We  pass  from  change  to  change, 
Familiar  with  the  strangest  things, 

And  with  familiar*  strange. 


We  make  the  light  through  which  we 
see 

The  light,  and  make  the  dark  : 
To  hear  the  lark  sing,  we  must  be 

At  heaven's  gate  with  the  lark. 


THE  SADDEST  SIGHT. 

As  one  that  leadeth  a  blind  man 

In  a  city,  to  and  fro, 

Thought,  even  so, 
Leadeth  me  still  wherever  it  will 

Through  scenes  of  joy  and  woe. 

I    have    seen    Lear,    his    white    head 

crowned 

With  poor  straws,  playing  King  ; 
And,  wearying 

Her  cheeks'  young  flowers  "  with  true- 
love  showers," 
I  have  heard  Ophelia  sing. 

I  have  been  in  battles,  and  I  have  seen 
Stones  at  the  martyrs  hurled,  — 
Seen  th'  flames  curled 

Round  foreheads  bold,  and  lips  whence 

rolled 
The  Litanies  of  the  world. 

But  of  all  sad  sights  that  ever  I  saw, 

The  saddest  under  the  sun, 

Is  a  little  one, 

Whose  poor  pale  face  was  despoiled  of 
grace 

Ere  yet  its  life  begun. 

No  glimpse  of  the  good  green  Nature 
To  gladden  with  sweet  surprise 
The  staring  eyes, 

That  only  have  seen,  close  walls   be- 
tween, 
A  hand-breadth  of  the  skies. 

Ah,  never  a  bird  is  heard  to  sing 
At  the  windows  under  ground, 
The  long  year  round  ; 

There,  never  the  morn  on  her  pipes  of 

corn 
Maketh  a  cheerful  sound. 

Oh,  little  white  cloud  of  witnesses 

Against  your  parentage, 

May  Heaven  assuage 
The  woes  that  wait  on  your  dark  es- 
tate,— 

Unorphaned  orphanage. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CAKY. 


THE   BRIDAL   HOUR. 

"  THE  moon's  gray  tent  is  up  :  another 

hour, 
And  yet  another  one  will  bring  the 

time 
To   which,    through    many   cares    and 

checks,  so  slowly, 
The  golden  day  did  climb. 

"  Take  all  the  books  away,  and  let  no 

noises 

Be  in  the  house  while  softly  I  undress 
My  soul   from   broideries  of  disguise, 

and  wait  for 
My  own  true  love's  caress. 

"  The  sweetest  sound  will  tire  to-night ; 

the  dewdrops 
Setting   the  green  ears  in  the  corn 

and  wheat, 
Would   make   a  discord  in  the   heart 

attuned  to 
The  bridegroom's  coming  feet. 

"  Love  !    blessed    Love  !    if  we  could 

hang  our  walls  with 
The   splendors  of   a  thousand   rosy 

Mays, 
Surely  they  would  not  shine  so  well  as 

thou  dost, 
Lighting  our  dusty  days. 

"  Without  thee,  what  a  dim  and  woeful 

story 
Our  years  would  be,  oh,  excellence 

sublime  ! 

Slip  of  the  life  eternal,  brightly  growing 
In  the  low  soil  of  time  !  " 


IDLE. 

I  HEARD  the  gay  spring  coming, 
I  saw  the  clover  blooming, 

Red  and  white  along  the  meadows ; 

Red  and  white  along  the  streams ; 
I  heard  the  bluebird  singing, 
I  saw  the  green  grass  springing, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  heard  the  ploughman's  whistle, 

I  saw  the  rough  burr  thistle 

In  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  harrow,  — 
Saw  the  summer's  yellow  gleams 


In  the  walnuts,  in  the  fennel, 

In  the  mulleins,  lined  with  flannel, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  felt  the  warm,  bright  weather  ; 
Saw  the  harvest,  —  saw  them  gather 

Corn  and  millet,  wheat  and  apples,— 

Saw  the  gray  barns  with  their  seams 
Pressing  wide,  —  the  bare-armed  shear 

ers,  — 
The  ruddy  water-bearers,  — 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

The  bluebird  and  her  nestling 
Flew  away  ;  the  leaves  fell  rustling, 

The  cold  rain  killed  the  roses, 

The  sun  withdrew  his  beams  ; 
No  creature  cared  about  me, 
The  world  could  do  without  me, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 


GOD   IS   LOVE. 

AH,  there  are  mighty  things  under  the 

sun, 
Great  deeds  have  been  acted,  great 

words  have  been  said, 
Not  just  uplifting  some  fortunate  one, 
But  lifting  up  all  men  the  more  by  a 
head. 

Aye,  the  more  bv  the   head,  and  the 

shoulders  too  ! 

Ten  thousand  may  sin,  and  a  thou- 
sand may  fall, 
And  it  may  have  been  me,  and  it  yet 

may  be  you, 

But  the  angel  in  one  proves  the  angel 
in  all. 

And  whatever  is   mighty,  whatever  is 

high, 

Lifting  men,  lifting  women  their  nat- 
ures above, 
And  close  to  the  kinship  they  hold  to 

the  sky, 

Why,  this  I  affirm,  that  its  essence  is 
Love. 

The  poorest,  the  meanest  has  right  to 

his  share  — 

For   the    life   of    his    heart,   for  the 
strength  of  his  hand, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


8r 


'T  is  the  sinew  of  work,  't  is  the  spirit 

of  prayer  — 

And  here,  and  God  help  me,  I  take 
up  my  stand. 

No  pain  but  it  hushes  to  peace  in  its 

arms, 
No  pale  cheek  it  cannot  with  kisses 

make  bright, 
fits  wonder  of  splendors  has  made  the 

world  s  storms 

To  shine  as  with  rainbows,  since  first 
there  was  light. 

Go,  bring  me  whatever  the  poets  have 

praised, 
The  mantles  of  queens,  the  red  roses 

of  May, 
I  '11  match  them,  I  care  not  how  grandly 

emblazed, 

With  the  love  of  the  beggar  who  sits 
by  the  way. 

When  I  think  of  the   gifts   that  have 

honored  Love's  shrine  — 
Heart,  hope,  soul,  and  body,  all  mor- 
tal can  give  — 
Tor  the   sake   of   a    passion    superbly 

divine, 

I  am  glad,  nay,  and  more,  I  am  proud 
that  I  live  ! 

Fair  women  have  made  them  espousals 

with  death, 
And    through    the   white    flames   as 

through  lilies  have  trod, 
And    men    have   with   cloven   tongues 

preached  for  their  faith, 
And   held   up   their  hands   stiff  with 
thumb-screws,  to  God. 

I  have  seen  a  great  people  its  vantage 

defer 
To  the  love  that  can  move  it  as  love 

only  can, 

.A    whole    nation    stooping    with    con- 
science astir 

To  a  chattel  with  crop  ears,  and  call- 
ing it  man. 

Compared,  O  my  beautiful  Country,  to 

thee, 

In  this  tenderest  touch  of  the  mana- 
cled hand, 
The  tops  of  the  pyramids  sink  to  the 

sea, 

And  the  thrones  of  the  earth  slide  to- 
gether like  sand. 
6 


Immortal   with   beauty  and   vital  with 

youth, 

Thou  standest,  O  Love,  as  thou  al- 
ways hast  stood 

From  the  wastes  of  the  ages,  proclaim- 
ing this  truth, 

All  peoples  and  nations  are  made  of 
one  blood. 

Ennobled  by  scoffing  and  honored  by 

shame, 
The  chiefest  of  great  ones,  the  crown 

and  the  head, 

Attested  by  miracles  done  in  thy  name 
For  the  blind,  for  the  lame,  for  the 
sick  and  the  dead. 

Because  He  in  all  things  was  tempted 

like  me, 
Through  the  sweet  human  hope,  by 

the  cross  that  He  bore, 
For  the   love   which  so  much  to   the 

Marys  could  be, 

Christ  Jesus  the  man,  not  the  God,  I 
adore. 


LIFE'S  MYSTERIES. 

ROUND  and  round  the  wheel  doth  run, 
And  now  doth   rise,   and   now  doth 
fall; 

How  many  lives  we  live  in  one, 
And  how  much  less  than  one,  in  all  J 

The  past  as  present  as  to-day  — 

How    strange,    how     wonderful  !    it 
seems 

A  player  playing  in  a  play, 

A  dreamer  dreaming  that  he  dreams  ! 

But  when   the  mind  through  devious 
glooms 

Drifts  onward  to  the  dark  amain, 
Her  wand  stern  Conscience  reassumes, 

And  holds  us  to  ourselves  again. 

Vague  reminiscences  come  back 

Of  things  we  seem,  in  part,  to  have 
known, 

And  Fancy  pieces  what  they  lack 
With  shreds  and  colors  all  her  own. 

Fancy,  whose  wing  so  high  can  soar, 
Whose  vision  hath  so  broad  a  glance, 

We  feel  sometimes  as  if  no  more 
Amenable  to  change  and  chance. 


82 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And  yet,  one  tiny  thread  being  broke  — 
One  idol  taken  from  our  hands, 

The  eternal  hills  roll  up  like  smoke, 
The  earth's  foundations   shake   like 
sands ! 

Ah  !  how  the  colder  pulse  still  starts 
To  think  of  that  one  hour  sublime, 

We    hugged    heaven     down    into    our 

hearts, 
And  clutched  eternity  in  time  ! 

"When  love's  dear  eyes  first  looked  in 

ours, 
When  love's  dear  brows  were  strange 

to  frowns, 

When  all  the  stars  were  burning  flow- 
ers 

That  we  might  pluck  and   wear  for 
crowns. 

We  cannot  choose  but  cry  and  cry  — 
Oh,  that  its  joys  we  might  repeat  ! 

When  just  its  mutability 

Made  all  the  sweetness  of  it  sweet. 

Close  to  the  precipice's  brink 

We  press,  look  down,  and,  while  we 

quail 
From  the   bad  thought  we  dare    not 

think, 
Lift  curiously  the  awful  vail. 

We  do  the  thing  we  would  not  do  — 
Our  wills  being  set  against  our  wills, 

And  suffer  o'er  and  o'er  anew 
The  penalty  our  peace  that  kills. 

Great  God,  we  know  not  what  we  know 
Or  what  we  are,  or  are  to  be  ! 

We  only  trust  we  cannot  go 

Through  sin's  disgrace  outside  of  thee. 

And  trust  that  though  we  are  driven  in 
And  forced  upon  thy  name  to  call 

At  last,  by  very  strength  of  sin, 
Thou  wilt  have  mercy  on  us  all  ! 


WE    are   the    mariners,  and   God  the 

Sea, 
And  though  we  make  false  reckonings, 

and  run 

Wide  of  a  righteous  course,  and  are  un- 
done, 

Out  of  his  deeps  of  love  we  cannot 
be. 


For  by  those  heavy  strokes  we  misname 

ill, 
Through  the  fierce  fire  of  sin,  though 

tempering  doubt, 
Our  natures  more  and  more  are  beaten 

out 
To  perfecter  reflections  of  his  will  ! 


THE  best  man  should  never  pass  by 
The  worst,  but  to  brotherhood  true, 

Entreat  him  thus  gently,  "  Lo,  I 
Am  tempted  in  all  things  as  you." 

Of  one  dust  all  peoples  are  made, 
One  sky  doth  above  them  extend, 

And  whether  through  sunshine  or  shade 
Their  paths  run,  they  meet  at  the  end. 

And  whatever  his  honors  may  be,  — 
Of  riches,  or  genius,  or  blood, 

God  never  made  any  man  free 
To  find  out  a  separate  good. 


PLEDGES. 

SOMETIMES  the  softness  of  the  embrac- 
ing air. 
The  tender  beauty  of  the  grass  and 

sky, 
The  look  of  still  repose  the  mountains 

wear, 
The  sea-waves  that  beside  each  other 

lie 
Contented    in    the    sun  —  the    flowery 

gleams 

Of  gardens  by  the  doors  of  cottages, 
The    sweet,    delusive    blessedness    of 

dreams, 
The  pleasant  murmurs  of  the  forest 

trees 
Clinging  to  one  another  —  all  I  see, 

And  hear,  and  all  that  fancy  paints, 
Do  touch  me' with  a  deep  humility, 
And  make  me  be  ashamed  of  my  com- 
plaints. 
Then,  in  my  meditations,  I  resolve 

That  I  will  never,  while  I  live,  again 
Ruffle  the  graceful  ministries  of  love 
With  brows  distrustful,  or  with  wishes 

vain. 
Then  I  make  pledges  to  my  heart  and 

say 

We  two  will  live  serener  lives  hence- 
forth ; 

For  what  is  all  the  outward  beauty 
worth, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


The   golden  opening  of   the    Sweetest 

day 

That  ever  shone,  if  we  arise  to  hide, 
Not   from    ourselves,  but   from   men's 

eyes  away, 
The  last  night's  petulance  unpacified  ! 


PROVERBS  IN  RHYME. 


akes  us  eagle-eyed  : 
Our  fantasies  befriend  us  in  our  youth, 
And  build  the  shadowy  tents  wherein 

we  hide 
Out  of  the  glare  of  truth. 

Make  no  haste  to  despise 

The  proud  of  spirit  :  ofttimes  pride 

but  is 
An  armor  worn  to  shield  from  insolent 

eyes 
Our  human  weaknesses. 

Be  slow  to  blame  his  course 

Or  name  him  coward  who  disdains  to 

fight  : 
Courage  is  just  a  blind  impelling  force, 

And  often  wrong  as  right. 

Condemn  not  her  whose  hours 

Are  not  all  given  to  spinning  nor  to 

care  : 
Has  not  God  planted  every  path  with 

flowers 
Whose  end  is  to  be  fair  ? 

Think  not  that  he  is  cold 

Who  runneth  not  your  proffered  hand 

to  touch  : 
On  feeling's  heights  't  is  wise  the  step  to 

hold 
From  trembling  overmuch  ; 

And  though  its  household  sweets 

Affection  may  through  daily  channels 
give, 

The  heart  is  chary,  and  ecstatic  beats 
Once  only  while  we  live. 


FAME. 

FAME    guards   the    wreath   we   call   a 

crown 
With  other  wreaths  of  fire, 


And  dragging  this  or  that  man  down 

Will  not  raise  you  the  higher  ! 
Fear  not  too  much  the  open  seas, 

Nor  yet  yourself  misdoubt ; 
Clear  the  bright  wake  of  geniuses, 

Then  steadily  steer  out. 
That  wicked  men  in  league  should  be 

To  push  your  craft  aside, 
Is  not  the  hint  of  modesty, 

But  the  poor  conceit  of  pride. 


GENIUS. 

A  CUNNING  and  curious  splendor, 
That  glorifies  commonest  things  — 

Palissy,  with  clay  from  the  river, 
Moulds  cups  for  the  tables  of  kings. 

A  marvel  of  sweet  and  wise  madness, 
That  passes  our  skill  to  define  ; 

It  clothes  the  poor  peasant  with  grand- 
eur, 
And  turns  his  rude  hut  to  a  shrine. 

Full  many  a  dear  little  daisy 

Had  passed  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Ere  Burns,  with  his  pen  and  his  plough- 
share, 

Upturned  and  immortalled  that  one. 

And  just  with  a  touch  of  its  magic 
It  gives  to  the  poet's  rough  rhyme 

A  something ti\-3i\.  makes  the  world  listen, 
And  will,  to  the  ending  of  time. 

It  puts  a  great  price  upon  shadows  — 
Holds  visions,  all  rubies  above, 

And  shreds  of  old  tapestries  pieces 
To  legends  of  glory  and  love. 

The  ruin  it  builds  into  beauty, 
Uplifting  the  low-lying  towers, 

Makes   green   the  waste   place  with  a 

garden, 
And  shapes  the  dead  dust  into  flowers. 

It  shows  us  the  lovely  court  ladies, 
All  shining  in  lace  and  brocade  ; 

The  knights,  for  their  gloves  who  did 

battle, 
In  terrible  armor  arrayed. 

It  gives  to  the  gray  head  a  glory, 
And  grace  to  the  eyelids  that  weep, 

And  makes  our  last  enemy  even, 
To  be  as  the  brother  of  sleep. 


84 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


A  marvel  of  madness  celestial, 
That  causes  the  weed  at  our  feet, 

The  thistle  that  grows  at  the  wayside, 
To    somehow   look    strange   and    be 
sweet. 

No  heirs  hath  it,  neither  ancestry  ; 

But  just  as  it  listeth,  and  when, 
It  seals  with  its  own  royal  signet 

The  foreheads  of  women  and  men. 


IN   BONDS. 

WHILE  shines  the  sun,  the  storm  even 

then 

Has  struck  his  bargain  with  the  sea  — 
Oh,  lives  of  women,  lives  of  men, 

How  pressed,  how  poor,  how  pinched 
ye  be  ! 

It  is  as  if,  having  granted  power 

Almost  omnipotent  to  man, 
Heaven  grudged  the  splendor  of  the 
dower, 

And  going  back  upon  her  plan, 

Mortised  his  free  feet  in  the  ground, 
Closed  him  in  walls  of  ignorance, 

And  all  the  soul  within  him  bound 
In  the  dull  hindrances  of  sense. 

Hence,  while  he  goads  his  will  to  rise, 
As  one  his  fallen  ox  might  urge, 

The  conflict  of  the  impatient  cries 
Within    him    wastes    him    like    a 
scourge. 

Even  as  dreams  his  days  depart, 
His  work  no  sure  foundation  forms, 

Immortal  yearnings  in  his  heart, 
And  empty  shadows  in  his  arms  ! 

It  is  as  if,  being  come  to  land, 

Some  pestilence,  with  ringers  black, 

Loosed  from  the  wheel  the  master  hand 
And  drove  the  homesick  vessel  back  ; 

As  if  the  nurslings  of  his  care 

Chilled  him  to  death  with  their  em- 
brace ; 
As  if  that  she  he  held  most  fair 

Turned   round   and   mocked   him  to 
his  face. 

And  thus  he  stands,  and  ever  stands, 
Tempted  without  and  torn  within ; 


sick  witt 


Ashes  of  ashes  in  his  hands, 
Famished   and  faint,  and 


Seeing  the  cross,  and  not  the  crown  ; 
The  o'erwhelming  flood,  and  not  th< 

ark; 

Till  gap  by  gap  his  faith  throws  down 
Its   guards,  and   leaves    him   to   the 
dark. 

And  when  the  last  dear  hope  has  fled, 
And  all  is  weary,  dreary  pain, 

That  enemy,  most  darkly  dread, 
Grows  pitiful,  and  snaps  the  chain. 


NOBILITY. 

TRUE  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeming,— 

In  doing  each  day  that  goes  by 
Some  little  good  —  not  in  the  dreaming 

Of  great  things  to  do  by  and  by. 
For  whatever  men  say  in  blindness, 

And  spite  of  the  fancies  of  youth, 
There  's  nothing  so  kingly  as  kindness, 

And  nothing  so  royal  as  truth. 

We  get  back  our  mete  as  we  measure  — 

We  cannot  do  wrong  and  feel  right, 
Nor  can  we  give  pain  and  gain  pleasure, 

For  justice  avenges  each  slight. 
The  air  for  the  wing  of  the  sparrow, 

The  bush  for  the  robin  and  wren, 
But  alway  the  path  that  is  narrow 

And  straight,  for  the  children  of  men 

'T  is  not  in  the  pages  of  story 

The  heart  of  its  ills  to  beguile, 
Though    he   who   makes   courtship    t( 
glory 

Gives  all  that  he  hath  for  her  smile. 
For  when  from  her  heights  he  has  woi 
her, 

Alas  !  it  is  only  to  prove 
That  nothing  's  so  sacred  as  honor, 

And  nothing  so  loyal  as  love  ! 

We  cannot  make  bargains  for  blisses, 

Nor  catch  them  like  fishes  in  nets ; 
And  sometimes  the  thing  our  life  missf 

Helps  more  than  the  thing  which 

gets. 
For  good  lieth  not  in  pursuing, 

Nor  gaining  of  great  nor  of  small, 
But  just  in  the  doing,  and  doing 

As  we  would  be  done  by,  is  all. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AKD  FEELING. 


Through  envy,  through  malice,  through 
hating, 

Against  the  world,  early  and  late, 
No  jot  of  our  courage  abating  — 

Our  part  is  to  work  and  to  wait. 
And  slight  is  the  sting  of  his  trouble 

Whose   winnings    are  less   than   his 

worth  ; 
For  he  who  is  hone,st  is  noble, 

Whatever  his  fortunes  or  birth. 


TO   THE   MUSE. 

PHANTOMS  come  and  crowd  me  thick, 
And  my  heart  is  sick,  so  sick  ; 
Kindness  no  more  refresh 
Brain  nor  body,  mind  nor  flesh. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  comfort  me 
With  thy  heavenly  company. 

Thieves  beset  me  on  my  way, 
Day  and  night  and  night  and  day, 
Stealing  all  the  lovely  light 
That  did  make  my  dreams  so  bright. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  hide  my 

treasures 
High  among  immortal  pleasures. 

Friendship's  watch  is  weary  grown, 
[And  I  lie  alone,  alone ; 
'Love  against  me  flower-like  closes, 
Blushing,  opening  toward  the  roses. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  keep  my  friend 
!To  the  sad  and  sunless  end. 

Oh,  the  darkness  of  the  estate 
'  Where  I,  stript  and  bleeding,  wait, 
Torn  with  thorns  and  with  wild  woe, 
Hn  my  house  of  dust  so  low  ! 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  make  my  faith 
Strong  to  triumph  over  death. 

Rock  me  both  at  morns  and  eves 
In  a  cradle  lined  with  leaves  — 
Light  as  winds  that  stir  the  willows 
Stir  my  hard  and  heavy  pillows. 
Good  Muse,  sweet  Muse,  rock  me  soft, 
ffTill  my  thoughts  soar  all  aloft. 

Seal  my  eyes  from  earthly  things 
With  the  shadow  of  thy  wings, 
Fill  with  songs  the  wildering  spaces, 
Tifl  I  see  the  old,  old  faces, 
Rise  forever,  on  forever  — 
'iood    Muse,    sweet    Muse,    leave    me 
never. 


HER  voice  was  sweet  and  low  ;  her  face 
No  words  can  make  appear, 

For  it  looked  out  of  heaven  but  long 

enough 
To  leave  a  shadow  here. 

And  I  only  knew  that  I  saw  the  face, 

And  saw  the  shadow  fall, 
And  that  she  carried  my  heart  away 

And  keeps  it ;  that  is  all. 


NO    RING. 
^, 

WHAT  is  it  that  doth  spoil  the  fair  adorn- 
ing 

With  which  her  body  she  would  dig- 
nify, 
When  from  her  bed  she  rises  in  the 

morning , 

To  comb,  and  plait,  and  tie 
Her  hair  with  ribbons,  colored  like  the 
sky  ? 

What  is  it  that  her  pleasure  discom- 
poses 
When  she  would  sit  and  sing  the  sun 

away  — 
Making  her  see  dead  roses  in  red  roses, 

And  in  the  downfall  gray 
A  blight  that  seems  the  world  to  over- 
lay? 

What  is  it  makes  the  trembling  look  of 

trouble 
About  her  tender  mouth  and  eyelids 

fair? 
Ah  me,  ah  me  !  she  feels  her  heart  beat 

double, 

Without  the  mother's  prayer, 
And  her  wild  fears  are  more  then  she 
can  bear. 

To  the  poor  sightless  lark  new  powers 

are  given, 
Not  only  with  a  golden   tongue    to 

sing, 

But  still  to  make  her  wavering  way  to- 
ward heaven 

With  undiscerning  wing ; 
But  what  to  her  doth  her  sick  sorrow 
bring  ? 

Her  days  she  turns,  and  yet  keeps  over- 
turning, 

And  her  flesh  shrinks  as  if  she  felt  the 
rod  ; 


86 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


For   'gainst   her  will   she   thinks   hard 

things  concern  ing 
The  everlasting  God, 
And  longs  to  be  insensate  like  the  clod. 

Sweet  Heaven,  be  pitiful  !  rain  down 

upon  her 
The    saintly   charities    ordained    for 

such  ; 

She  was  so  poor  in  everything  but  honor, 
And  she  loved  much  —  loved  much ! 
Would,   Lord,   she  had  thy  garment's 
hem  to  touch. 

Haply,  it  was  the  hungry  heart  within 

her, 
The  woman's  heart,  denied  its  natural 

right, 
That  made  her  the  thing  men  call  sinner, 

Even  in  her  own  despite  : 
Lord,  that  her  judges  might  receive  their 
sight ! 


TEXT   AND    MORAL. 

FULL  early  in  that  dewy  time  of  year 
When  wheat  and  barley  fields  are  gay 

and  green, 
And  when  the  flag  uplifts  his  dull  gray 

spear, 
And  cowslips  in  their  yellow  coats  are 

seen, 
And   every  grass-tuft  by  the  common 

ways 
Holdeth  some  red-mouthed   flower  to 

give  it  praise  : 

Just  as  the  dawn  was  at  that  primal  hour 
That  brings  such  tender  golden  sweet- 
ness in, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  had  left  his  eastern  bower 
And  set  upon  the  hills  his  rounded 

chin, 
I  heard  a  little  song  —  three  notes  —  not 

more  — 
Plained  like  a  low  petition  at  my  door. 

And  all  that  day  and  other  days  I  heard 
The  same  low  asking  note,  and  then  I 

found 

My  beggar  in  the  likeness  of  a  bird. 
Surely,  I  said,  she  hideth  some  deep 

wound 

Under  the  speckled  beauty  of  her  wing, 
That  she  doth  seem  to  rather  cry  than 
sing. 


Haply  some  treacherous  man,  and  evil- 

eyed, 
Hath  spoiled  her  nest  or  snared  her 

lovely  mate, 
But  while  I  spoke,  a  bird  unharmed  I 

spied 

High  in  the  elm-top,  all  his  heart  elate, 
And  splitting  with  its  joy  his  shining 

bill, 
Unmindful  of   that   low,  sad   "  trill-a- 

trill  ! " 

At  sunset  came  my  boys  with  cheeks 

ablush, 

And  fairly  flying  on  their  arms  and 
legs, 

To  tell  that  they  had  found  within  a  bush 
A  bird's-nest,  lined  with  little   rose- 
leaf  eggs  ! 

Then,  inly  musing,  I  renewed  my  quest 

Knowing  that  no  bird  singeth  on  her 
nest. 

And  still,  the  softest  morns,  the  sweet- 
est eves, 

And  when  from  out  the  midnight  blue 
and  still, 

The  tender  moon  looked  in  between  the 

leaves, 

That  little,  plaining,  pleading  trill-a- 
trill ! 

Would  tremble  out,  and  fall  away,  and 
fade, 

And  so  I  mused  and  mused,  until  I  made 

A  text  at  last  of  the  melodious  cry, 
And  drew  this  moral  (was  it  fetched 

too  far  ?) 

Life's  inequalities  so  underlie 
The  things  we  have,  so  rest  in  what 

we  are, 
That  each  must  steadfast  to  his  nature 

keep, 
And  one  must  soar  and  sing,  and  one 

must  weep. 


TO  MY  FRIEND. 


IF  we  should  see  one  sowing  seed 

With  patient  care  and  toil  and  pain, 
Then  to  some  other  garden  speed 
And  sow  again ; 

And  so  right  on  from  day  to  day, 

And  so  right  on  through  months  and 
years, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


Watering  the  farrows  all  the  way 
With  rain  of  tears  ; 

Ne'er  gladdened  by  the  yellowing  top 

Of  harvest,  nor  of  ripened  rose, 
Till  suddenly  the  plough  should  stop,  — 
The  work-day  close ; 

Should  we  not,  as  the  day  ran  by, 

Wonder  to  see  him  take  no  ease, 
And  cry  at  nightfall,  "  Vanity 
Of  Vanities  !  " 

And  yet 't  is  thus,  my  friend,  the  hours 

And  days  go  by,  with  you  and  me. 
We,  too,  are  sowing  seeds  of  flowers 
We  never  see. 

Sometimes  we  sow  in  soil  of  sin ; 

Sometimes    where     choking     thorns 

abound  ; 

And  sometimes  cast  our  good  seed  in 
Dry,  stony  ground. 

Our  stalks  spring  up  and  fade  and  die 

Under  the  burning  noontide  heat, 
And  hopes  and  plans  about  us  lie 
All  incomplete  ; 

And  as  the  toilsome  days  go  by 
Unrespited  with  flowery  ease, 
Angels  may  cry  out,  "  Vanity 
Of  Vanities  !  " 

Oh,  when,  fruitionless,  the  night 
Descends  upon  our  day  of  ills, 
\od  grant  we  find  our  harvests  white 
On  heavenly  hills. 


ONE   OF  MANY. 

BECAUSE  I  have  not  done  the  things  I 

know 

I  ought  to  do,  my  very  soul  is  sad  ; 
And  furthermore,  because  that  I  have 

had 

Delights  that  should  have  made  to  over- 
flow 

My  cup  of  gladness,  and  have  not  been 
glad. 

All  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  poor  I  live  ; 
My  house,  my  friend,  with  heavy  heart 

I  see, 
As  if  that  mine  they  were  not  meant 

to  be; 


For  of  the  sweetness  of  the  things  I 

have 

A   churlish   conscience    dispossesses 
me. 

I  do  desire,  nay,  long,  to  put  my  powers 
To   better   service   than   I   yet   have 

done  — 
Not  hither,  thither,  without  purpose 

run, 

And  gather  just  a  handful  of  the  flow- 
ers, 

And   catch   a  little   sunlight   of    the 
sun. 

Lamenting   all  the   night  and   all  the 

day 

Occasion  lost,  and  losing  in  lament 
The  golden  chances  that  I  know  were 

meant 
For  wiser  uses  —  asking  overpay 

When  nothing  has  been  earned,  and 
all  was  lent. 

Keeping  in  dim  and  desolated  ways, 
And  where   the  wild   winds   whistle 

loud  and  shrill 
Through  leafless  bushes,  and  the  birds 

are  still, 
And  where  the  lights  are  lights  of  other 

days  — 
A  sad  insanity  o'ermastering  will. 

And    saddest    of     the    sadness    is    to 

know 
It   is    not   fortune's  fault,   but    only 

mine, 
That    far    away   the    hills   of    roses 

shine  — 
And   far  away  the   pipes  of  pleasure 

blow  — 
That  we,  and  not  our  stars,  our  fates 

assign. 


LIGHT. 

BE  not   much    troubled    about    many 

things, 
Fear  often  hath  no  whit  of  substance  in  it, 

And  lives  but  just  a  minute  ; 
While  from  the  very  snow  the  wheat- 
blade  springs. 
And  light  is  like  a  flower, 
That  bursts  in  full  leaf  from  the  darkest 

hour. 
And  He  who  made  the  night, 


88 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Made,  too,  the  flowery  sweetness  of  the 

light. 
Be  it  thy  task,  through  his  good  grace, 

to  win  it. 


TRUST. 

SOMETIMES  when  hopes  have  vanished, 

one  and  all, 
Soft  lights  drop  round  about  me  in 

their  stead, 
As    if    there    had    been    cast    across 

Heaven's  wall 
Hanclfuls   of    roses    down    upon  my 

bed  ; 
Then  through   my   darkness   pleasures 

come  in  crowds, 
Shining  like  larks'  wings  in  the  sombre 

clouds, 

And  I  am  fed  with  sweetness,  as  of  dew 
Strained  through  the  leaves  of  pansies 
at  day  dawn  ; 

But  not  the   flowery  lights   that   over- 
strew 
The  bed  my  weary  body  rests  upon, 

Is    it    that  maketh    all   my   house    so 
bright, 

And  feedeth  all  my  soul  with  such  de- 
light. 

Nay,   ne'er    could    heavenly,   veritable 

flowers 
Make  the  rude  time  to  run  so  smoothly 

bY> 

And  tie  with  amity  the  alien  hours, 
As  might  some  maiden,  with  her  rib- 
bon, tie 

A  bunch  of  homely  posies  into  one, 
Making  all  fair,  when  none  were  fair 
alone. 

But  lying  disenchanted  of  my  fear, 
'Neath  the  gold  borders  of  my  "  cover- 
lid " 
So  overstrown,  I  feel  my  flesh  so  near 

Things  lovely,  that,  my  body  being  hid 
Out  of  the  sunshine,  shall  not  harm  en- 
dure, 

But  mix  with  daisies,  and  grow  fair  and 
pure. 

Oh,  comfortable   thought  !   yet   not  of 

this 

Get   I  the  peace  that  drieth  all  my 
tears ; 


For,  wrapped  within  thfs  truth,  another 

is 
Sweeter  and   stronger  to   dispel  my 

fears  : 
If  through   its   change   my  flesh   shall 

death  defy 
Surely  my  soul  shall  not  be  left  to  die. 

Our  God,  who  taketh  knowledge  of  the 

flowers 

Making  our  bodies  change  to  things 
so  fine, 

Knoweth  the  insatiate  longings  that  are 

ours, 

For  fadeless  blooms  and  suns  that  al- 
ways shine. 

His  name  is  Love,  and  love  can  work 
no  ill  ; 

Hence,  though  He  slay  me,  I  will  trust 
Him  still. 


LIFE. 

SOLITUDE  —  Life  is  inviolate  solitude  —7 
Never  was  truth  so  apart  from  the 

dreaming 
As  lieth   the   selfhood  inside  of  the 

seeming, 
Guarded  with  triple  shield   out  of   all 

quest, 
So  that  the  sisterhood   nearest   and 

sweetest, 
So  that  the  brotherhood  kindest,  com- 

pletest,  r 

Is  but  an  exchanging  of  signals  at  best. 

Desolate  —  Life  is  so  dreary  and  deso- 
late- 
Women  and  men  in  the  crowd  mee4 

and  mingle, 
Yet  with   itself  every  soul   standeth 

single, 
Deep    out   of    sympathy    moaning    its 

moan  — 

Holding  and  having  its  brief  exulta- 
tion — 

Making  its  lonesome  and  low  lamen- 
tation — 
Fighting  its  terrible  conflicts  alone. 

Separate  —  Life  is  so  sad  and  so  sep- 
arate — 

Under  love's   ceiling   with  roses   for , 
lining, 

Heart   mates  with  heart  in  a  tender 
entwining. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


89 


Yet  never  the  sweet  cup  of  love  filleth 

full  — 
Eye  looks  in  eye  with  a  questioning 

wonder, 
Why   are   we    thus   in   our    meeting 

asunder  ? 

Why  are  our  pulses   so   slow  and  so 
dull  ? 

Fruitless,  fruitionless  —  Life  is  fruition- 
less  — 
Never  the  heaped   up  and  generous 

measure  — 

Never  the  substance  of  satisfied  pleas- 
ure — 

Never  the  moment  with  rapture  elate  — 
But  draining  the  chalice,  we  long  for 

the  chalice, 
And   live   as   an   alien  inside  of  our 

palace, 
Bereft  of  our  title  and  deeds  of  estate. 

Pitiful  —  Life  is  so   poor  and  so  piti- 
ful — 
Cometh  the  cloud   on  the  goldenest 

weather  — 

'    Briefly  the  man  and  his  youth  stay  to- 
gether — 

Falleth  the  frost  ere  the  harvest  is  in, 
And   conscience   descends   from   the 

open  aggression 
To   timid   and   troubled   and  tearful 

concession, 

And  downward  and  down  into  parley 
with  sin. 

Purposeless  —  Life  is  so  wayward  and 

purposeless  — 

Always  before  us  the  object  is  shift- 
ing. 
Always  the  means  and   the  method 

are  drifting, 
We  rue  what  is  done  —  what  is  undone 

deplore  — 
More   striving   for  high  things  than 

things  that  are  holy. 
And  so  we  go  down  to  the  valley  so 

lowly 

Wherein  there  is  work,  and  device  never 
more. 

Vanity,  vanity  —  all  would  be  vanity, 
Whether  in  seeking  or  getting   our 

pleasures  — 
Whether  in  spending  or  hoarding  our 

treasures  — 

Whether    in     indolence,     whether     in 
strife  — 


Whether  in  feasting  and  whether  in 

fasting, 

But  for  our  faith  in  the   Love  ever- 
lasting, — 
But  for  the  life  that  is  better  than  life. 


PLEA   FOR   CHARITY. 

IF  one  had  never  seen  the  full  complete- 
ness 
Of  the  round  year,  but  tarried  half  the 

way, 

How  should  he  guess  the  fair  and  flow- 
ery sweetness 

That  cometh  with  the  May  — 
Guess  of  the  bloom,  and  of  the  rainy 

sweetness 
That  come  in  with  the  May  ! 

Suppose  he  had  but  heard   the   winds 

a-bl  owing, 
And   seen   the  brooks   in  icy  chains 

fast  bound, 
How  should   he   guess   that  waters   in 

their  flowing 

Could  make  so  glad  a  sound  — 
Guess  how  their  silver  tongues  should 

be  set  going 
To  such  a  tuneful  sound  ! 

Suppose  he  had  not  seen  the  bluebirds 

winging, 
Nor  seen  the  day  set,  nor  the  morning 

rise, 
Nor  seen    the   golden    balancing    and 

swinging 

Of  the  gay  butterflies  — 
Who  could  paint  April  pictures,  worth 

the  bringing 
To  notice  of  his  eyes  ? 

Suppose  he  had  not  seen  the  living  dai- 
sies, 
Nor  seen  the  rose,  so  glorious  and 

bright, 
Were  it  not  better  than  your  far-off 

praises 

Of  all  their  lovely  light, 
To  give  his  hands  the  holding  of  the 

daisies, 
And  of  the  roses  bright  ? 

O  Christian  man,  deal  gently  with  the 

sinner  — 

Think  what  an  utter  wintry  waste  is 
his 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


Whose  heart  of  love  has  never  been  the 
winner, 

To  know  how  sweet  it  is  — 
Be  pitiful,  O  Christian,  to  the  sinner, 

Think  what  a  world  is  his  ! 

He   never   heard   the   lisping   and   the 

trembling 
Of  Eden's  gracious  leaves  about  his 

head  — 

His  mirth  is  nothing  but  the  poor  dis- 
sembling 

Of  a  great  soul  unfed  — 
Oh,  bring  him  where   the  Eden-leaves 

are  trembling, 
And  give  him  heavenly  bread. 

As  Winter  doth  her  shriveled  branches 

cover 
With  greenness,  knowing  spring-time's 

soft  desire, 
Even  so  the  soul,  knowing  Jesus  for  a 

lover, 

Puts  on  a  new  attire  — 
A  garment  fair  as   snow,  to  meet   the 

Lover 
Who  bids  her  come  up  higher. 


SECOND   SIGHT. 

MY  thoughts,  I  fear,  run  less  to  right 

than  wrong, 

And  I  am  selfish,  sinful,  being  human  ; 
But  yet   sometimes   an   impulse   sweet 

and  strong 
Touches  my  heart,  for  I  am   still  a 

woman  ; 

And  yesterday,  beside  my  cradle  sitting, 
And    broidering    lilies    through    my 

lullabies, 
My  heart  stirred  in  me,  just  as  if   the 

flitting 
Of  some  chance  angel  touched  me, 

and  my  eyes 

Filled  all  at  once  to  tender  overflow- 
ing, 
And  my  song  ended  —  breaking   up 

in  sighs  ; 

I  could  not  see  the  lilies  I  was  sewing 
For  the  hot  tears,  thick  coming  to  my 
eyes. 

The  unborn  years,  like  rose-leaves  in  a 

flame, 
Shriveled    together,     and    this    vision 

came, 


For  I  was  gifted  with  a  second  seeing  : 
'T  was  night,  and  darkly  terrible  with 

storms, 

And  I  beheld  my  cherished  darling  flee- 
ing 
In    all    her    lily   broideries    from    my 

arms  — 
A  babe  no  longer.     Wild  the  wind  was 

blowing, 
And  the  snows  round  her  soddened  as 

they  fell  ; 
And  when  a  whisper  told  me  she  was 

going 
That  way  wherein  the  feet   take   hold 

on  hell, 
I  could  not  cry,  I  could  not  speak  nor 

stir, 
Held  in  mute  torture  by  my  love  of  her. 

We  make  the  least   ado  o'er  greatest 

troubles ; 
Our   very  anguish  doth   our  anguish 

drown  ; 
The  sea  forms   only  just   a  few  faint 

bubbles 

Of  stifled  breathing  when  a  ship  goes 
down. 

'T  was  but  a  moment  —  then  the  merry 

laughter 
Of  my  sweet    baby   on  the  nurse's 

knee 

Rippled  across  the  mists  of  fantasy  ; 
And  sunshine,  stretching  like  a  golden 

rafter 
From  cornice  on  to  cornice  o'er  my 

head, 
Scattered  the  darkness,  and  my  vision 

fled. 

Times  fall  when   Fate  just  misses  of: 

her  blows,  , 

And,  being  warned,  the  victim  slips 

aside  ; 
And   thus   it   was   with   me  —  the   idle 

shows, 
The   foolish    pomp    of    vanity    and 

pride, 
The  work  of  cunning  hands  and  curious 

looms, 

Shining   about  my  house  like    poppy- 
blooms, 
Like  poppy-blooms  had  drowsed  me, 

heart  and  brain  ; 
And  all  the  currents  of  my  blood  wer 

setting 

To  that  bad  dullness  that  is  worse 
than  pain. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


The  moth  will  spoil  the  garment  with 

its  fretting 
Surer  and  faster  than  the  work-day 

wear. 
The  quickening  vision   came  —  not  all 

too  late  : 
I  saw  that  there  were  griefs  for  me  to 

share, 
And    the   poor   worldling    missed  the 

worldling's  fate. 

There  was  my  baby  —  there  was  I,  the 

mother, 
Broidering   my   lilies   by  the   golden 

gleam 
Of  the  glad  sunshine  ;  but  was  there  no 

other 
Fleeing,  as  fled  the   phantom  in  my 

dream  ? 
Were  there  no  hearts,  because  of  their 

great  loving, 
Bound  to  the  wheel  of  torture  past  all 

moving  ? 
No   storms    of   awful   sorrow   to   be 

stemmed  ? 

Yea,  out   of  my  own   heart  I  stood 
condemned. 

Leaving    the    silken    splendor    of    my 

rooms, 
The  sunshine  stretching  like  a  golden 

rafter 
From  cornice  on  to  cornice,  and  the 

laughter 

Df  my  sweet  baby  on  the  nurse's  knee, 
Calling  me  back,  and  almost  keeping 

me  — 

Leaving  my  windows  bright  with  flow- 
ery blooms, 
I  passed  adown  my  broad  emblazoned 

hall, 

Along  the  soft  mats,  tufted  thick  across — 
Scarlet  and  green,  like  roses  grown  with 

moss  ; 
And  parting  from  my  pleasures,  one 

and  all, 

Threaded  my  way  through  many  a  nar- 
row street, 
From    whose    low    cellars,   lit    with 

scanty  embers, 
Came   great-eyed   children,   with   bare, 

shivering  feet, 

*.nd  wondered  at  me,  through  the  doors 
1  gaped  wide, 

^  ill  they  were  crowded  back,  or  pushed 

aside, 

By  some  lean-elbowed   man,  or  flabby 
crone, 


Upon  whose  foreheads  discontent  had 

grown, 

As   grows   the   mildew   on   decaying 
timbers. 

"All  thine  is  mine,"  came  to  me  from 

the  fall 
Of  every  beggar's  footstep,  and    the 

glooms 
That  hung  around  held  yet  this  other 

call  : 

"  Who  to  himself  lives  only  is  not  liv- 
ing ; 
He  hath  no  gain  who  does  not  get  by 

giving." 
And  so  I  came  beneath  the  cold  gray 

wall 
That  shapes  the  awful  prison  of  the 

Tombs. 
Humility  had  been  my  gentle  guide  — 

I  saw  her  not,  a  heavenly  spirit  she  — 
And  when  the  fearful  door  swung  open 

wide 
I  heard  her  pleasant  steps  go  in  with 

me. 

Oh  for  a  tongue,  and  oh  !  for  words  to 

tell 
Of  the  young  creature,  masked  with 

sinful  guise, 

That  stood  before  me  in  her  narrow  cell 
And  dragged  my  heart  out  with  her 
pleading  eyes. 

I  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  could  not 
stir  — 

Afraid,  but  not  so  much  afraid  of  her 

As  of  myself  —  made  like  her  —  of  one 
dust, 

And  holding  an  immortal  soul  in  trust 

The  same  as  she  —  perhaps  not  even  so 
good, 

Tempted  with  her  temptations.  Was 't 
for  me 

To  hold  myself  apart  and  call  her  sin- 
ner ? 

Not  so  ;  and  silent,  face  to  face  we 
stood, 

And  as  some  traveler  in  the  night  be- 
lated 

Waits  for  the  star  he  knows  must  rise, 
so  I 

Patient  within  the  prison  darkness 
waited, 

Trusting  to  see  the  better  self  within 
her 

Rise  from  the  ruins  of  her  woman- 
hood. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Nor  did   I  wait  in  vain.     At  last,  at 

last, 
Her  eager  hand  reached  forth  and  held 

me  fast, 
And   drawing    just   a    little    broken 

breath, 

As  if  she  stood  upon  that  narrow  ground 
That  lies  a-tremble  betwixt  life  and 

death, 

Her  yearning,  fearful  soul   expression 
found : 

"I'm  dying — dying,  and  your  dewy 

hand 
Is    like    the    shadow  to  the    sickly 

plant 
Whose  root  is  in  the  dry  and  burning 

sand. 
Pity,    sweet    Pity  —  that    is    what    I 

want. 
You  bring  it  —  ah  !    you  would  not,  if 

you  knew. 
I  clasped   her   closer:    "Friend,   dear 

friend,  1  do  ! 
I  know  it  all  —  from  first  to  last,"  I 

said. 
"  'T  was  but  a  blind,  mistaken  search 

for  good  ; 

Premeditated  evil  never  led 
To  this  sad   end."     As  one  entranced 

she  stood, 
And  I  'went  on  :  "  Nay,  but  't  is  not 

the  end  : 
God   were  not  God   if    such  a    thing 

could  be  — 

If  not  in  time,  then  in  eternity, 
There  must  be  room  for  penitence  to 

mend 

Life's  broken  chance,  else  noise  of  wars 
Would  unmake  heaven." 

The  shadows  of  the  bars 
That  darkened  the  poor  face  like  dev- 
ils' fingers 

Faded  away,  and  still  in  memory  lingers 
The  look  of  tender,  tearful,  glad  sur- 
prise 

That  brought  the  saint's  soul  to  the 
sinner's  eyes. 

Life  out  of  death ;  it  seemed  to  me  as 

when 
The    anchor,    clutching,    holds     the 

driven  ship, 
And  to  the  cry  scarce  formed  upon 

her  lip, 

"  Lord  God  be  praised  !  "  I  answered 
with  "Amen." 


LIFE'S  ROSES. 

WHEN  the  morning  first  uncloses, 
And  before  the  mists  are  gone, 

All  the  hills  seem  bright  with  roses, 
Just  a  little  farther  on  ! 

Roses  red  as  wings  of  starlings, 

And  with  diamond  dew-drops  wet ; 
"  Wait,''  says  Patience,"  "  wait,  my  dar» 
lings  — 

Wait  a  little  longer  yet !  " 
So,  with  eager,  upturned  faces, 

Wait  the  children  for  the  hours 
That  shall  bring  them  to  the  places 

Of  the  tantalizing  flowers. 

Wild  with  wonder,  sweet  with  guesses, 

Vexed  with  only  fleeting  fears ; 
So  the  broader  day  advances, 

And  the  twilight  disappears. 
Hands  begin  to  clutch  at  posies, 

Eyes  to  flash  with  new  delight, 
And  the  roses,  oh  !  the  roses, 

Burning,  blushing  full  in  sight ! 

Now  with  bosoms  softly  beating, 

Heart  in  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Youths  and  maids  together  meeting 

Crowd  the  flowery  harvest  land. 
Not  a  thought  of  rainy  weather, 

Nor  of  thorns  to  sting  and  grieve, 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  gather^ 

All  the  care  is  what  to  leave' ! 

Noon  to  afternoon  advances, 
Rosy  red  grows  russet  brown  ; 

Sad  eyes  turn  to  backward  glances, 
So  the  sun  of  youth  goes  down. 

And  as  rose  by  rose  is  withered, 
Sober  sight  begins  to  find 

Many  a  false  heart  has  been  gathered, 
Many  a  true  one  left  behind. 

Hands  are  clasped  with  fainter  holding, 
Unfilled  souls  begin  to  sigh 

For  the  golden,  glad  unfolding 
Of  the  morn  beyond  the  sky. 


SECRET  WRITING. 

FROM  the  outward  world  about  us, 
From  the  hurry  and  the  din, 

Oh,  how  little  do  we  gather 
Of  the  other  world  within  1 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


93 


For  the  brow  may  wear  upon  it 

All  the  seeming  of  repose 
When  the  brain  is  worn  and  weary, 

And  the  mind  oppressed  with  woes  : 
And  the  eye  may  shine  and  sparkle 

As  it  were  with  pleasure's  glow, 
When  't  is  only  just  the  flashing 

Of  the  fires  of  pain  below. 
And  the  tongue  may  have  the  sweetness 

That  doth  seem  of  bliss  a  part, 
Wh,en  't  is  only  just  the  tremble 

Of  the  weak  and  wounded  heart. 
Oh,  the  cheek  may  have  the  color 

Of  the  red  rose,  with  the  rest, 
When  't  is  only  just  the  hectic 

Of  the  dying  leaf,  at  best. 

But  when  the  hearth  is  kindled, 

And  the  house  is  hushed  at  night  — 
Ah,  then  the  secret  writing 

Of  the  spirit  comes  to  light ! 
Through  the  mother's  light  caressing 

Of  the  baby  on  her  knee, 
We  see  the  mystic  writing 

That  she  does  not  know  we  see  — 
By  the  love-light  as  it  flashes 

In  her  tender-lidded  eyes, 
We  know  if  that  her  vision  rest 

On  earth,  or  in  the  skies  ; 
And  by  the  song  she  chooses, 

By  the  very  tune  she  sings, 
We  know  if  that  her  heart  be  set 

On  seen,  or  unseen  things. 

Oh,  when  the  hearth  is  kindled  — 

When  the  house  is  hushed  —  't  is  then 
We  see  the  hidden  springs  that  move 

The  open  deeds  of  men. 
As  the  father  turns  the  lesson 

For  the  boy  or  girl  to  learn, 
We  perceive  the  inner  letters 

That  he  knows  not  we  discern. 
For  either  by  the  deed  he  does, 

Or  that  he  leaves  undone, 
We  find  and  trace  the  channels 

Where  his   thoughts  and  feelings 

run. 
And  often  as  the  unconscious  act, 

Or  smile,  or  word  we  scan, 
Our  hearts  revoke  the  judgments 

We  have  passed  upon  the  man. 

Sometimes  we  find  that  he  who  says 

The  least  about  his  faith, 
Has  steadfastness  and  sanctity 

To  suffer  unto  death  ; 
And  find  that  he  who  prays  aloud 

With  ostentatious  mien, 


Prays  only  to  be  heard  of  men, 

And  only  to  be  seen. 
For  when  the  hearth  is  kindled, 

And  the  house  is  hushed  at  night  — 
Ah,  then  the  secret  writing 

Of  the  spirit  comes  to  light. 


DREAMS. 

OFTEN  I  sit  and  spend  my  hour, 

Linking   my   dreams  from   heart   to 
brain, 

And  as  the  child  joins  flower  to  flower, 
Then  breaks  and  joins  them  on  again, 

Casting  the  bright  ones  in  disgrace, 
And  weaving  pale  ones  in  their  stead, 

Changing  the  honors  and  the  place 
Of  white  and  scarlet,  blue  and  red ; 

And  finding  after  all  his  pains 
Of  sorting  and  selecting  dyes, 

No  single  chain  of  all  the  chains 
The  fond  caprice  that  satisfies ; 

So  I  from  all  things  bright  and  brave, 
Select  what  brightest,  bravest  seems, 

And,  with  the  utmost  skill  I  have, 
Contrive  the  fashion  of  my  dreams. 

Sometimes  ambitious  thoughts  abound, 
And  then  I  draw  my  pattern  bold, 

And  have,  my  shuttle  only  wound 

WTith  silken  threads  or  threads  of  gold. 

Sometimes  my  heart  reproaches  me, 
And  mesh  from  cunning  mesh  I  pull, 

And  weave  in  sad  humility 

With   flaxen  threads   or  threads  of 
wool. 

For  here  the  hue  too  brightly  gleams, 
And  there  the  grain  too  dark  is  cast, 

And  so  no  dream  of  all  my  dreams 
Is  ever  finished,  first,  or  last. 

And  looking  back  upon  my  past 
Thronged  with   so   many  a   wasted 
hour, 

I  think  that  I  should  fear  to  cast 
My  fortunes  if  I  had  the  power. 

And  think  that  he  is  mainly  wise, 

Who  takes  what  comes  of  good  or  ill, 

Trusting  that  wisdom  underlies 

And  worketh  in  the  end  —  His  will. 


94 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


MY  POET. 

AH,  could  I  my  poet  only  draw 

In  lines  of  a  living  light, 
You  would  say  that  Shakespeare  never 
saw 

In  his  dreams  a  fairer  sight 

Along  the  bright  crisp  grass  where  by 

A  beautiful  water  lay, 
We  walked  —  my  fancies  and  I  — 

One  morn  in  the  early  May. 

And  there,  betwixt  the  water  sweet 
And  the  gay  and  grassy  land, 

I  found  the  print  of  two  little  fee^t 
Upon  the  silvery  sand. 

These  following,  and  following  on, 
Allured  by  the  place  and  time, 

I,  all  of  a  sudden,  came  upon 
This  poet  of  my  rhyme. 

Betwixt  my  hands  I  longed  to  take 
His  two  cheeks  brown  with  tan, 

To  kiss  him  for  my  true  love's  sake, 
And  call  him  a  little  man. 

A  rustic  of  the  rustics  he, 

By  every  look  and  sign, 
And  I  knew,  when  he  turned  his  face  to 
me, 

'T  was  his  spirit  made  him  fine. 

His  ignorance  he  had  sweetly  turned 

Into  uses  passing  words  : 
He  had  cut  a  pipe  of  corn,  and  learned 

Thereon  to  talk  to  the  birds. 

And  now  it  was  the  bluebird's  trill, 
Now  the  blackbird  on  the  thorn, 

Now  a  speckle-breast,  or  tawny-bill 
That  answered  his  pipe  of  corn, 

And  now,  though  he  turned  him  north 
and  south, 

And  called  upon  bird  by  bird, 
There  was  never  a  little  golden  mouth 

Would  answer  him  back  a  word. 

For  all,  from  the  red-bird  bold  and  gay, 
To  the  linnet  dull  and  plain, 

Had  fallen  on  beds  of  the  leafy  spray, 
To  listen  in  envious  pain. 

"  Ah,  do  as  you  like,  my  golden  quill ;  " 
So  he  said,  for  his  wise  share  ; 


"  And  the  same  to  you,  my  tawny-bill, 
There  are  pleasures  everywhere." 

Then  his  heart  fell  in  him  dancing  so, 
It  spun  to  his  cheek  the  red, 

As  he  spied  himself  in  the  wave  below 
A-standing  on  his  head. 

Ah,  could  I  but  this  picture  draw, 
Thus  glad  by  his  nature's  right, 

You  would  say  that  Shakespeare  nevei 

saw 
In  his  dreams  a  fairer  sight. 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  FOURTH  OF 
JULY,  1864. 

ONCE  more,  despite  the  noise  of  wars, 
And  the  smoke  gathering  fold  on  fold, 

Our  daisies  set  their  stainless  stars 
Against  the  sunshine's  cloth  of  gold. 

Lord,  make  us  feel,  if  so  Thou  will, 
The  blessings  crowning  us  to-day, 

And  the  yet  greater  blessing  still, 
Of  blessings  Thou  hast  taken  away. 

Unworthy  of  the  favors  lent, 

We  fell  into  apostasy  ; 
And  lo  !  our  country's  chastisement 

Has  brought  her  to  herself,  and  Thee  ! 

Nearer  by  all  this  grief  than  when 
She  dared  her  weak  ones  to  oppress, 

And  played  away  her  States  to  men 
Who  scorned  her  for  her  foolishness. 

OJi,  bless  for  us  this  holiday, 

Men   keep  like  children  loose  from 

school, 
And  put  it  in  their  hearts,  we  pray, 

To  choose  them  rulers  fit  to  rule. 

Good   men,  who   shall   their  country's 
pride 

And  honor  to  their  own  prefer  ; 
Her  sinews  to  their  hearts  so  tied 

That  they  can  only  live  through  her. 

Men  sturdy — of  discerning  eyes, 
And  souls  to  apprehend  the  right ; 

Not  with  their  little  light  so  wise 

They  set  themselves  against  Thy  light 

Men  of  small  reverence  for  names, 
Courageous,  and  of  fortitude 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


To  put  aside  the  narrow  aims 
Of  factor,  for  the  public  good. 

Men  loving  justice  for  the  race, 

Not  for  the  great  ones,  and  the  few, 

Less  studious  of  outward  grace 

Than  careful  to  be  clean  all  through. 

Men  holding  state,  not  self,  the  first, 
Ready  when  all  the  deep  is  tossed 

With  storms,  and  worst  is  come  to  worst, 
To  save  the  Ship  at  any  cost. 

Men  upright,  and  of  steady  knees, 
That  only  to  the  truth  will  bow  ; 

Lord,   help   us   choose   such   men   as 

these, 
For  only  such  can  save  us  now. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

FOULLY   ASSASSINATED,    APRIL,    1865. — 
INSCRIBED  TO   PUNCH. 

No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from  other 

lauds ! 
As  in  his  life,  this  man,  in  death,  is 

ours  ; 
His  own  loved  prairies  o'er  his  "  gaunt 

gnarled  hands  " 

Have  fitly  drawn  their  sheet  of  sum- 
mer flowers  ! 

I  What  need  hath  he  now  of  a  tardy  crown, 
His  name  from  mocking  jest  and  sneer 

to  save  ? 

jWhen  every  ploughman  turns  his  fur- 
row down 
As   soft   as  though  it  fell   upon  his 
grave. 

Le  was   a  man  whose  like  the  world 

again 
Shall  never  see,  to  vex  with  blame  or 

praise  : 
landmarks  that  attest  his  bright, 

brief  reign 
Are  battles,  not  the  pomps  of  gala- 
days  ! 

grandest   leader   of   the   grandest 

war 

That  ever  time  in  history  gave  a  place  ; 
""iat  were  the  tinsel  flattery  of  a  star 
such  a  breast !  or  what  a  ribbon's 
grace ! 


J 

, 


'T  is  to  th'  man,  and  th'  ma 

worth, 
The    nation's    loyalty   in    tears    up- 

springs ; 
Through   him  the  soil  of   labor  shines 

henceforth 

High   o'er  the  silken  broideries   of 
kings. 

The  mechanism  of  external  forms  — 
The   shrifts   that   courtiers  put  their 

bodies  through, 
Were  alien  ways  to  him  —  his  brawny 

arms 
Had  other  work  than  posturing  to  do  ! 

Born  of   the  people,  well   he   knew  to 

grasp 
The  wants   and  wishes  of  the  weak 

and  small  ; 
Therefore  we  hold  him  with  no  shadowy 

clasp  — 

Therefore  his  name  is  household  to 
us  all. 

Therefore  we  love  him  with  a  love  apart 
From  any  fawning  love  of  pedigree  — 

His  was  the  royal  soul    and  mind  and 

heart  — 
Not  the  poor  outward  shows  of  royalty. 

Forgive  us   then,  O  friends,  if  we  are 

slow 
To    meet    your    recognition    of    his 

worth  — 

We  're  jealous  of  the  very  tears  that  flow 
From  eyes  that  never  loved  a  humble 
hearth. 


SAVED. 

No  tears  for  him  !  his   light  was  not 

your  light  ; 
From  earth  to  heaven  his  spirit  went 

and  came, 
Seeing,  where   ye   but   saw  the   blank, 

black  night, 

The   golden  breaking  of   the  day  of 
fame. 

Faded  by  the  diviner  life,  and  worn, 
Dust  has  returned  to  dust,  and  what 

ye  see 
Is  but  the  ruined   house  wherein  were 

borne 
The  birth-pangs  of  his  immortality. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Hither  and  thither  drifting  drearily, 

The  glory  of  serener  worlds  he  won, 
As  some  strange  shifting  column  of  the 

sea 

Catches  the  steadfast  splendor  of  the 
sun. 

What  was  your  shallow  love  ?  or  what 

the  gleam 
Of  smiles  that  chance   and  accident 

could  chill, 
To  him  whose  soul  could  make  its  mate 

a  dream, 

And  wander  through  the  universe  at 
will  ? 

When  your  weak  hearts  to  stormy  pas- 
sion woke, 
His  from  its  loftier  bent  was   only 

stirred, 

As  is  the  broad  green  bosom  of  the  oak 
By  the  light  flutter  of  the  summer  bird. 

His  joys,  in  realms  forbidden  to  you,  he 

sought, 

And  bodiless  servitors,  at  his  com- 
mands, 
Hovered   about  the  watchfires   of  his 

thought 
On  the  dim  borders  of  poetic  lands. 

The  times  he  lived  in,  like  a  hard,  dark 

wall, 
He  grandly  painted  with  his  woes  and 

wrongs  — 
Come    nearer,   friends,    and    see    how 

brightly  all 

Is    joined   with   silvery   mortises  of 
songs. 

Weep  for  yourselves  bereft,  but  not  for 

him  ; 
Wrong  reaches  to  the  compensating 

right, 
And  clouds  that  make  the  day  of  genius 

dim, 
Shine  at  the  sunset  with  eternal  light. 


SPENT  AND   MISSPENT. 

STAY  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky, 

O  golden  color  of  the  evening  sun  ! 
Let  not  the  sweet  day  in  its  sweetness 

die, 

While  my  day's  work  is  only  just  be- 
gun. 


Counting    the   happy  chances    strewn 

about 
Thick  as  the  leaves,  and  saying  which 

was  best, 

The  rosy  lights  of  morning  all  went  out, 
And  it  was  burning  noon,  and  time  to 
rest. 

Then  leaning  low  upon  apiece  of  shade, 
Fringed  round  with  violets  and  pan- 

sies  sweet, 

My  heart  and  I,  I  said,  will  be  delayed, 
And  plan   our  work  while  cools  the 
sultry  heat. 

Deep  in   the  hills,  and  out  of  silence 

vast, 

A  waterfall  played  up  his  silver  tune  ; 
My  plans  lost  purpose,  fell  to  dreams  at 

last, 
And  held  me  late  into  the  afternoon. 

But  when  the  idle   pleasure  ceased  to 

please, 
And  I  awoke,  and   not  a  plan  was 

planned, 

Just  as  a  drowning  man  at  what  he  sees 
Catches  for  life,  I  caught   the  thing 
at  hand. 

And  so  life's  little  work-day  hour  has  all 
Been  spent  and  misspent  doing  what 

I  could, 

And  in  regrets  and  efforts  to  recall 
The  chance  of  having,  being,  what  I 
would. 

And  so  sometimes  I  cannot  choose  but 

cry, 
Seeing    my    late-sown    flowers     are 

hardly  set  — 

O  darkening  color  of  the  evening  sky,    ;• 
Spare  me  the  day  a  little  longer  yet  1 


LAST  AND   BEST. 

SOMETIMES,  when  rude,  cold  shadows 
run 

Across  whatever  light  I  see ; 
When  all  the  work  that  I  have  done, 

Or  can  do,  seems  but  vanity  j 

I  strive,  nor  vainly  strive,  to  get 
Some  little  heart's  ease  from  the  c 

When  all  the  weariness  and  fret 
Shall  vanish  from  my  life  away  ; 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


97 


For  I,  with  grandeur  clothed  upon, 
Shall  lie  in  state  and  take  my  rest, 

And     all     my     household,     strangers 

grown, 
Shall  hold  me  for  an  honored  guest. 

But  ere  that  day  when  all  is  set 
In  order,  very  still  and  grand, 

And  while  my  feet  are  lingering  yet 
Along  this  troubled  border-land, 

What  things  will  be  the  first  to  fade, 
And  down  to  utter  darkness  sink  ? 
7 


The  treasures  that  my  hands  have  laid 
Where  moth  and  rust  corrupt,  I  think. 

And  Love  will  be  the  last  to  wait 

And   light   my  gloom   with   gracious 
gleams  ; 

For  Love  lies  nearer  heaven's  glad  gate, 
Then  all  imagination  dreams. 

Aye,  when  my  soul  its  mask  shall  drop, 
The  twain  to  be  no  more  at  one, 

Love,  with  its  prayers,  shall  bear  me  up 
Beyond  the  lark's  wings,  and  the  sun. 


POEMS 


OF 


NATURE    AND   HOME. 


IF  AND  IF. 

IF  I  were  a  painter,  I  could  paint 

The  dwarfed  and  straggling  wood, 
And   the   hill-side  where  the   meeting- 
house 

With  the  wooden  belfry  stood, 
A  dozen  steps  from  the  door,  —  alone, 
On  four  square  pillars  of  rough  gray 
stone. 

We  school -boys  used  to  write  our  names 

With  our  finger-tips  each  day 
In  th'  dust  o'  th'  cross-beams,  —  once 

it  shone, 

I  have  heard  the  old  folks  say, 
(Praising   the   time   past,  as  old   folks 

will), 
Like  a  pillar  o'  fire  on  the  side  o'  th'  hill. 

I  could  paint  the  lonesome  lime-kilns, 

And  the  lime-burners,  wild  and  proud, 

Their    red    sleeves    gleaming    in    the 

smoke 

Like  a  rainbow  in  a  cloud, — 
Their   huts    by   the    brook,    and    their 

mimicking  crew  — 
Making  believe  to  be  lime-burners  too  ! 

I  could  paint  the  brawny  wood-cutter, 

With  the  patches  at  his  knees,  — 
He  's  been  asleep  these  twenty  years, 

Among  his  friends,  the  trees  : 
The  day  that  he  died,  the  best  oak  o' 

the  wood 

Came  up  by  the  roots,  and  he  lies  where 
it  stood. 

I   could   paint  the   blacksmith's  dingy 

shop,  — 

Its  sign,  a  pillar  of  smoke  ; 
The  farm  horse  halt,  the  rough-haired 

colt, 
And  the  jade  with  her  neck  in  a  yoke  ; 


The  pony  that  made  to  himself  a  law, 
And  would  n't  go  under  the  saddle,  nor 
draw  ! 

The  poor  old  mare  at  the  door-post, 
With  joints  as  stiff  as  its  pegs, — 
Her    one    white    eye,    and    her    neck 

awry,  — 

Trembling  the  flies  from  her  legs, 
And  the  thriftless  farmer  that  used  to 

stand 
And  curry  her  ribs  with  a  kindly  hand. 

I  could  paint  his  quaint  old-fashioned 

house, 

With  its  windows,  square  and  small, 
And  the  seams  of  clay  running  every 

way 

Between  the  stones  o'  the  wall  : 
The  roof,  with  furrows  of  mosses  green, 
And  new  bright  shingles  set  between. 

The  oven,  bulging  big  behind, 
And  the  narrow  porch  before, 

And  the  weather-cock  for  ornament 
On  the  pole  beside  the  door  ; 

And    th'    row    of    milk-pans,    shining 
bright 

As  silver,  in  the  summer  light. 

And  I  could  paint  his  girls  and  boys, 

Each  and  every  one, 
Hepzibah   sweet,   with   her  little   bare 

feet, 

And  Shubal,  the  stalwart  son, 
And  wife  and  mother,  with  homespun 

gown, 

And    roses    beginning    to    shade    into 
brown. 

I  could  paint  the  garden,  with  its  paths 
Cut  smooth,  and  running  straight,  — 

The  gray  sage  bed,  the  poppies  red, 
And  the  lady-grass  at  the  gate,  — 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


99 


The  black  warped  slab  with  its  hive  of 

bees, 
In  the  corner,  under  the  apple-trees. 

I  could  paint  the  fields,  in  the  middle 

hush 

Of  winter,  bleak  and  bare, 
Some  snow  like  a  lamb  that  is  caught 

•in  a  bush, 

Hanging  here  and  there,  — 
The  mildewed  haystacks,  all  a-lop, 
And  the  old  dead  stub  with  the  crow 
at  the  top. 

The  cow,  with  a  board  across  her  eyes, 

And  her  udder  dry  as  dust, 
Her   hide   so   brown,  her  horn  turned 
down, 

And  her  nose  the  color  of  rust,  — 
The  walnut-tree  so  stiff  aud  high, 
With  its  black  bark  twisted  all  awry. 

The  hill-side,  and  the  small  space  set 
With  broken  palings  round,  — 

The   long    loose   grass,    and   the   little 

grave 
With  the  head-stone  on  the  ground. 

And  the  willow,  like  the  spirit  of  grace 

Bending  tenderly  over  the  place. 

The  miller's  face,  half  smile,  half  frown, 

Were  a  picture  I  could  paint, 
And    the    mill,   with    gable   steep   and 

brown, 

And  dripping  wheel  aslant, — 
The  weather-beaten  door,  set  wide, 
And   the    heaps    of    meal-bags    either 
side. 

The  timbers  cracked  to  gaping  seams, 

The  swallows'  clay-built  nests, 
And  the  rows  of  doves  that  sit  on  the 

beams 

With  plump  and  glossy  breasts,  — 
The  bear  by  his  post  sitting  upright  to 

eat, 
With  half  of  his  clumsy  legs  in  his  feet. 

I  could   paint   the  mill-stream,  cut   in 

two 

By  the  heat  o'  the  summer  skies, 
And  the  sand-bar,  with  its  long  brown 

back, 

And  round  and  bubbly  eyes, 
And  the  bridge,  that  hung  so  high  o'er 

the  tide, 
Creaking   and   swinging  from   side   to 

side. 


The  miller's  pretty  little  wife, 
In  the  cottage  that  she  loves, — 

Her  hand  so  white,  and  her  step  so  light, 
And -her  eyes  as  brown  as  th'  dove's, 

Her  tiny  waist,  and  belt  of  blue, 

And  her  hair  that  almost  dazzles  you. 

I  could  paint  the  White-Hawk  tavern, 

flanked 

With  broken  and  wind-warped  sheds, 
And  the  rock  where  the  black  clouds 

used  to  sit, 

And  trim  their  watery  heads 
With  little  sprinkles  of  shining  light, 
Night  and  morning,  morning  and  night. 

The  road,  where  slow  and  wearily, 

The  dusty  teamster  came,  — 
The  sign  on  its  post  and   the  round- 
faced  host, 

And  the  high  arched  door,  aflame 
With  trumpet-flowers,  —  the  well  sweep, 

high, 
And  the  flowing  water-trough,  close  by. 

If  I  were  a  painter,  and  if  my  hand 

Were  cunning,  as  it  is  not, 
I  could  paint  you  a  picture  that  would 

stand 

When  all  the  rest  were  forgot ; 
But  why  should  I  tell  you  what  it  would 

be  ? 
I  never  shall  paint  it,  nor  you  ever  see. 


AN  ORDER   FOR  A  PICTURE. 

OH,  good  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ? 

Aye  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  corn  fields,  a  little  brown, — 
The     picture     must     not     be    over- 
bright,  — 
Yet  all   in  the  golden  and  gracious 

light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is 

down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods    upon  woods,  with   fields  of 

corn 

Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breath- 
ing-room 
Under  their  tassels,  —  cattle  near, 


IOO 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around,  — 
(Ah,    good    painter,    you    can't    paint 

sound  !  )  — 
These,  and  the  house  where  I  was 

born, 

Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide,  — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush  : 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  self -same  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

Listen-closer.     When  you  have  done 
With  woods   and   corn  fields  and 

grazing  herds, 

_A^lady,  the  lovelkst  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  uponwou  must  paint  for 

me  : 
Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The    sovereign    sweetness,   the    gentle 

grace, 

The  woman's  soul,  and  the  angel's  face> 

XThat  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while, 

I    need    not    speak   these    foolish 

words : 
Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would 

say,  —  , 

She  is  my  mother  :  you  will  agree  ^ 
That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown'away. 

''Two  little  urchins  at  her.knec 
You  must  paint,  sir  :  one  like  me,  — 

ThejDth££  with  a  clearer  brow, 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise^ 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea,  — ' 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now, — 
He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore, 
Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  newS^and  she  never  came 

back. 

Ah,  it  is  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 
With  ray  great-hearted  brother  on  her 

deck: 
I  watched   him  till  he  shrank   to  a 

speck, 

And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 
The  time  we   stood   at  our  mother's 

knee  : 

That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea  ! 


Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 
We  were  together,  half  afraid 
Of  the   corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of 

the  shade  V 
Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still 

.and  far,  — 

Xoitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 
Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open 
s       door, 

And  over  the  hay-stack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble  and  ready  to  drop, 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow 

star, 

That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 
Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the 

skies     ^  --  —  •-  '  — 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry-treer? 
Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax- 

field  grew,  -y  _ 

Dead  at  the  top,  —  fjuaLone  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with 


From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  hand-breadth  of  shadow,  day  after 

day. 
Afraid  to  go  home,  sir  ;  for  one  of  us 

bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled 

eggs,  — 

The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat  : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  would  n't. 

eat, 

But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

Ai-last-we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 
Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 
You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  ? 
If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 
To  put  it  solely  in  the  face      / 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me  :> 

I  think  't  was  solely  mine,  indeed  : 
But  that  's  no  matter,  —  paint  it  so  ; 
.      The  eyes   of  our  mother  —  (take 
/          good  heed  )  — 
f  Looking  not  on  the  nestful  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by 

the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down  to 

our  lies, 
And,  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful 

surprise  \ 
I   felt    my  heart  bleed  where    that 

glance  went,  Us  though         \ 
A  sharp  blade  struck  through  itJp 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


101 


You,  sir,  know 

That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things    that  are    fairest,   things   most 

sweet,  — 

Woods   and  corn  fields  and  mulberry- 
tree,  — 
The  mother,  —  the  lads,  with  their  bird, 

at  her  knee  : 

But,  oh,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe  ! 
High   as  the   heavens   your  name   I'll 

shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave 


S 


.that  out. 


THE   SUMMER  STORM. 


AT  noon-time  I  stood  in  the  door-way 
_  to  see 

The  spots,  burnt  like  blisters,  as  white 
as  could  be, 

Along  the  near  meadow,  shoved  in  like 
a  wedge 

Betwixt  the  high-road,  and  the  stubble- 
land's  edge. 

The  leaves  of  the  elm-tree  were  dusty 

and  brown, 
The  birds  sat  with  shut  eyes  and  wings 

hanging  down, 
The  corn  reached  its  blades  out,  as  if  in 

the  pain 
Of  crisping  and  scorching  it  felt  for  the 


Their  meek  faces  turning  away  from  the 

sun, 
The  cows  waded  up  to  their  flanks  in  the 

run, 
The  sheep,  so  herd-loving,  divided  their 

flocks, 
And  singly  lay  down  by  the  sides  of  the 

rocks. 

At  sunset  there  rose  and  stood  black  in 

the  east 
A  cloud  with  the  forehead  and  horns  of 

a  beast, 
That  quick  to  the  zenith  went  higher 

and  higher, 
With  feet  that  were  thunder  and  eyes 

that  were  fire. 

Then  came  a  hot  sough,  like  a  gust  of 

his  breath, 
And  the  leaves  took  the  tremble  and 

whiteness  of  death,  — 


The  dog,  to  his  master,  from  kennel  and 

kin, 
Came  whining  and  shaking,  with  back 

crouching  in. 

At  twilight  the  darkness  was  fearful  to 

see  : 
"  Make  room,"  cried  the  children,  "  O 

mother,  for  me  !  " 
As  climbing  her  chair  and  her  lap,  with 

alarm, 
And  whisper,  —  "  Was  ever  there  seen 

such  a  storm  !  " 

At  morning,  the  run  where  the  cows 

cooled  their  flanks 
Had  washed  up  a  hedge  of  white  roots 

from  its  banks  ; 
The  turnpike  was  left  a  blue  streak,  and 

each  side 
The  gutters  like  rivers  ran  muddy  and 

wide. 

The  barefooted  lad  started  merry  to 

school,       ^ 
And  the  way  was  the  nearest  that  led 

through  the  pool ; 
The  red-bird  wore  never  so  shining  a 

coat, 
Nor  the  pigeon  so  glossy  a  ring  on  her 

throat. 

The  teamster  sat  straight  in  his  place, 

for  the  nonce, 
And  sang  to  his  sweetheart  and  team, 

both  at  once  ; 
And  neighbors  shook   hands   o'er   the 

fences  that  day, 
And  talked  of  their  homesteads  instead 

of  their  hay. 


THE  SPECIAL  DARLING. 

ALONG  the  grassy  lane  one  day, 

Outside  the  dull  old-fashioned  town, 

A  dozen  children  were  at  play  ; 
From  noontide  till  the  even-fall, 

Curly-heads    flaxen     and     curly-heads 
brown 

Were  busily  bobbing  up  and  down 
Behind  the  blackberry  wall. 

And  near  these  merry-makers  wild 
A  piteous  little  creature  was, 

With  face  unlike  the  face  of  a  child,  — » 
Eyes  fixed,  and  seeming  frozen  still, 


IO2 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY, 


And  legs  all  doubled  up  in  th'  grass, 
Disjointed  from  his  will. 

No  dream  deceived  his  dreary  hours, 
Nor  made  him  merry  nor  made  him 
grave  ; 

He  did  not  hear  the  children  call, 

Tumbling  under  the  blackberry- wall, 
With  shoulders  white  with  flowers  ; 

But  sat  with  great  wide  eyes  one  way, 

And  body  limberly  a-sway, 
Like  a  water-plant  in  a  wave. 

He  did  not  hear  the  little  stir 

The  ants  made,  working  in  their  hills, 

Nor  see  the  pale,  gray  daffodils 
Lifting  about  him  their  dull  points, 

Nor  yet  the  curious  grasshopper 
Transport  his  green  and  angular  joints 

From   bush   to   bush.      Poor  simple 

boy,  — 

His  senses  cheated  of  their  birth, 
He   might  as  well  have  grown  in    th' 
earth, 

For  all  he  knew  of  joy. 

Near  where  the  children  took  their  fill 

Of  play,  outside  the  dull  old  town, 
And    neighbored    by    a    wide-flanked 
hill, 

Where  mists  like  phantoms   up  and 

down 
Moved  all  the  time,  a  homestead  was, 

With  window  toward  the  plot  of  grass 
Where  sat  this  child,  and  oft  and  again 

Tender  eyes  peered  through  the  pane, 
Whose  glances  still  were  dim, 

Till  leaping  under  the  blackberry-wall, 
Curly-heads  flaxen,  brown  and  all, 

They  rested  at  last  on  him. 

Ah,  who  shall  say  but  that  such  love 
Is  the  type  of  His  who  made  us  all, 

And  that  from  the  Kingdom  up  above 
The   eyes    that    note   the   sparrow's 

fall, 
O'er  the  incapable,  weak  and  small, 

Watch  with  tenderest  care  : 

Such  is  my  hope  and  prayer. 


A  DREAM  OF   HOME. 

SUNSET  !  a  hush  is  on  the  air, 

Their   gray  old   heads   the    mountains 

bare, 
As  if  the  winds  were  saying  prayer. 


The   woodland,  with   its  broad,  green 

wing, 

Shuts  close  the  insect  whispering, 
And  lo  !  the  sea  gets  up  to  sing. 

The  day's  last  splendor  fades  and  dies, 
And  shadows  one  by  one  arise, 
To  light  the  candles  of  the  skies. 

O  wild  flowers,  wet  with  tearful  dew, 

0  woods,  with  starlight  shining  through  ! 
My  heart  is  back  to-night  with  you  ! 

I 

1  know  each  beech  and  maple  tree, 
Each  climbing  brier  and  shrub  I  see,  — 
Like   friends   they   stand   to   welcome 


Musing,  T  go  along  the 'streams, 
Sweetly  believing  in  my  dreams; 
For  Fancy  like  a  prophet  seems. 

Footsteps  beside  me  tread  the  sod 
As  in  the  twilights  gone  they  trod  ; 
And  I  unlearn  my  doubts,  thank  God ! 

Unlearn  my  doubts,  forget  my  fears, 
And  that  bad  carelessness  that  sears, 
And  makes  me  older  than  my  years. 

I  hear  a  dear,  familiar  tone, 
A  loving  hand  is  in  my  own, 
And  earth  seemS  made  for  me  alone. 

If  I  my  fortunes  could  have  planned, 
I  would  not  have  let  go  that  hand  ; 
But  they  must  fall  who  learn  to  stand. 

And  how  to  blend  life's  varied  hues, 
What  ill  to  find,  what  good  to  lose, 
My  Father  knoweth  best  to  choose. 


EVENING  PASTIMES. 

SITTING  by  my  fire  alone, 
When  the  winds  are  rough  and  cold, 
And  I  feel  myself  grow  old 

Thinking  of  the  summers  flown, 

I  have  many  a  harmless  art 
To  beguile  the  tedious  time  : 
Sometimes  reading  some  old  rhyme 

I  already  know  by  heart ; 

Sometimes  singing  over  words 
Which  in  youth's  dear  day  gone  by 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


103 


Sounded  sweet,  so  sweet  that  I 
Had  no  praises  for  the  birds. 

Then,  from  off  its  secret  shelf 
I  from  dust  and  moth  remove 
The  old  garment  of  my  love, 

In  the  which  I  wrap  myself. 

And  a  little  while  am  vain  ; 
But  its  rose  hue  will  not  bear 
The  sad  light  of  faded  hair ; 

So  I  hold  it  up  again, 

More  in  patience  than  regret 
Not  a  leaf  the  forest  through 
But  is  sung-  and  whispered  to. 

I  shall  wear  that  garment  yet. 


FADED  LEAVES. 

THE  hills  are  bright  with  maples  yet ; 

But  down  the  level  land 
The  beech  leaves  rustle  in  the  wind 

As  dry  and  brown  as  sand. 

The  clouds  in  bars  of  rusty  red 

Along  the  hill-tops  glow, 
And  in  the  still,  sharp -air,  the  frost 

Is  like  a  dream  of  snow. 

The  berries  of  the  brier-rose 
Have  lost  their  rounded  pride  : 

The  bitter-sweet  chrysanthemums 
Are  drooping  heavy-eyed. 

The  cricket  grows  more  friendly  now, 
The  dormouse  sly  and  wise, 

Hiding  away  in  the  disgrace 
Of  nature,  from  men's  eyes. 

The  pigeons  in  black  wavering  lines 
Are  swinging  toward  the  sun  ; 

And  all  the  wide  and  withered  fields 
Proclaim  the  summer  done. 

His  store  of  nuts  and  acorns  now 
The  squirrel  hastes  to  gain, 

And  sets  his  house  in  order  for 
The  winter's  dreary  reign. 

'T  is  time  to  light  the  evening  fire, 
To  read  good  books,  to  sing 

The  low  and  lovely  songs  that  breathe 
Of  the  eternal  spring. 


THE   LIGHT   OF  DAYS   GONE 
BY. 

SOME  comfort  when  all  else  is  night, 

About  his  fortune  plays, 
Who  sets  his  dark  to-days  in  the  light 

Of  the  sunnier  yesterdays. 

In  memory  of  joy  that 's  been 

Something  of  joy  is,  still  ; 
Where  no  dew  is,  we  may  dabble  in 

A  dream  of  the  dew  at  will. 

All  with  the  dusty  city's  throng 
Walled  round,  I  mused  to-day 

Of  flowery  sheets  lying  white  along 
The  pleasant  grass  of  the  way. 

Under  the  hedge  by  the  brawling  brook 
I  heard  the  woodpecker's  tap, 

And  the  drunken  trills  of  the  blackbirds 

shook 
The  sassafras  leaves  in  my  lap. 

I  thought  of  the  rainy  morning  air 
Dropping  down  through  the  pine, 

Of  furrows  fresh  from  the  shining  share, 
And  smelling  sweeter  than  wine. 

Of  the  soft,  thick  moss,  and  how  it  grew 
With  silver  beads  impearled, 

In  the  well  that  we  used  to  think  ran 

through 
To  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

I  thought  of  the  old  barn  set  about 
With  its  stacks  of  sweet,  dry  hay ; 

Of  the  swallows  flying  in  and  out 

Through  the  gables,  steep  and  gray  ; 

Thought  of  the  golden  hum  of  the 
bees, 

Of  the  cocks  with  their  heads  so  high, 
Making  it  morn  in  the  tops  of  the  trees 

Before  it  was  morn  in  the  sky. 

And  of  the  home,  of  the  dear  old  home, 
With  its  brown  and  rose-bound  wall, 

Where  we  fancied  death  could   never 

come  — ^___-"*""> 
I  thought  of  it  more  than  of  all. 

Each  childish  play-ground  memory 
claims, 

Telling  me  here,  and  thus, 
We  called  to  the  echoes  by  their  names, 

Till  we  made  them  answer  us. 


104 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Thank  God,  when  other  power  decays, 

And  other  pleasures  die, 
We  still  may  set  our  dark  to-days 

In  the  light  of  days  gone  by. 


A   SEA   SONG. 

COME,  make  for  me  a  little  song  — 
'T  was  so  a  spirit  said  to  me  — 

And  make  it  just  four  verses  long, 
And  make  it  sweet  as  it  can  be, 
And  make  it  all  about  the  sea. 

Sing  me  about  the  wild  waste  shore, 

Where,  long  and  long  ago,  with  me 
You  watched  the  silver  sails  that  bore 
The  great,  strong  ships  across  the 

sea — • 

The  blue,  the  bright,  the  boundless 
sea. 

Sing  me  about  the  plans  we  planned  : 
How  one  of  those  good  ships  should  be 

My  way  to  find  some  flowery  land 
Away  beyond  the  misty  sea, 
Where,  alway,  you  should  live  with 


Sing,  lastly,  how  our  hearts  were  caught 
Up  into  heaven,  because  that  we 

Knew  not  the  flowery  land  we  sought 
Lay  all  beyond  that  other  sea  — 
That  soundless,  sailless,  solemn  sea. 


SERMONS  IN  STONES. 

FLOWER  of  the  deep  red  zone, 
Rain  the  fine  light  about  thee,  near  and 

far, 
Hold  the  wide  earth,  so  as  the  evening 

star 

Holdeth  all  heaven,  alone, 
And   with    thy   wondrous    glory   make 

men  see 
His  greater  glory  who  did  fashion  thee  ! 

Sing,  little  goldfinch,  sing  ! 
Make  the  rough  billows  lift  their  curly 

ears 
And  listen,  fill  the  violet's  eyes  with  tears, 

Make  the  green  leaves  to  swing 
As  in  a  dance,  when  thou  dost  hie  along, 
Showing    the    sweetness    whence    thou 
get'st  thy  song. 


O  daisies  of  the  hills, 

When  winds  do  pipe  to  charm  ye,  be 
not  slow. 

Crowd  up,  crowd  up,  and  make  your 

shoulders  show 
White  o'er  the  daffodils  ! 

Yea,  shadow  forth  through  your  excel- 
ling grace 

With  whom  ye  have  held  counsel  face 
to  face. 

Fill  full  our  desire, 
Gray  grasses ;   trick  your  lowly  stems 

with  green, 
And   wear   your  splendors  even   as   a 

queen 

Weareth  her  soft  attire. 
Unfold  the  cunning  mystery  of  design 
That  combs  out  all  your  skirts  to  rib- 
bons fine. 

And  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 
Be  careful  to  go  strewing  in  and  out 
Thy  way  with  good  deeds,  lest  it  come 

about 

That  when  thou  shalt  depart, 
No  low  lamenting  tongue  be  found  to 

say, 

The  world  is  poorer  since  thou  went'st 
away ! 

Thou  shouldst  not  idly  beat, 
While    beauty    draweth    good    men's 

thoughts  to  prayer 
Even  as  the  bird's  wing  draweth  out 

the  air, 

But  make  so  fair  and  sweet 
Thy   house   of   clay,  some   dusk  shall 

spread  about, 
When  death  unlocks  the  door  and  lets 

thee  out. 


MY   PICTURE. 

AH,  how  the  eye  on  the  picture  stops 
Where  the  lights  of  memory  shine  J 
My  friend,  to  thee  I  will  leave  the  sea, 

If  only  this  be  mine, 
For  the  thought  of  the  breeze  in  the 

tops  of  the  trees 
Stirs  my  blood  like  wine  ! 

I  will  leave  the   sea  and  leave  the 

ships, 
And  the  light-house,,  taper  and  tall, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


105 


The  bar  so  low,  whence  the  fishers  go, 
And  the  fishers'  wives  and  all, 

If  thou  wilt  agree  to  leave  to  me 
This  picture  for  my  wall. 

I  leave  thee  all  the  palaces, 

With  their  turrets  in  the  sky  — 
The   hunting-grounds,   the   hawks  and 

hounds  — 

They  please  nor  ear  nor  eye  ; 
But  the  sturdy  strokes  on  the  sides  o' 

the  oaks 
Make  my  pulses  fly. 

The  old  cathedral,  filling  all 

The  street  with  its  shadow  brown, 
The    organ    grand,   and    the    choiring 

band, 
And    the    priest  with  his  shaven 

crown  ; 

'T  is  the  wail  of  the  hymn  in  the  wild- 
wood  dim, 
That  bends  and  bows  me  down. 

The  shepherd  piping  to  his  flock 

In  the  merry  month  of  the  May, 
The  lady  fair  with  the  golden  hair, 

And    the    knight    so    gallant    and 

gay  — 
For  the  wood  so  drear  that  is  pictured 

here, 
I  give  them  all  away. 

I  give  the  cities  and  give  the  sea, 
The  ships  aud  the  bar  so  low, 
And  fishers  and  wives  whose  dreary 

lives 

Speak  from  the  canvas  so  ; 
And  for  all  of  these  I  must  have  the 

trees  — 
The  trees  on  the  hills  of  snow  ! 

And  shall  we  be  agreed,  my  friend  ? 

Shall  it  stand  as  I  have  said  ? 
For  the  sake  of   the  shade  wherein  I 

played, 

And  for  the  sake  of  my  dead, 
That  lie  so  low  on  the  hills  of  snow, 
Shall  it  be  as  I  have  said  ? 


MORNING  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

MORN   on  the  mountains !    streaks   of 

roseate  light 

Up  the  high  east  athwart  the  shadows 
run; 


The  last  low  star  fades  softly  out  of 

sight, 

And  the  gray  mists  go  forth  to  meet 
the  sun. 

And  now  from  every  sheltering  shrub 

and  vine, 
And  thicket  wild  with  many  a  tangled 

spray, 

And  from  the  birch  and  elm  and  rough- 
browed  pine, 
The  birds  begin  to  serenade  the  day. 

And  now  the  cock  his  sleepy  harem 

thrills 
With    clarion   calls,   and    down  the 

•  flowery  dells, 
And  from  their  mossy  hollows  in  the 

hills, 

The  sheep  have  started  all  their  tink- 
ling bells. 

Lo,  the  great  sun !  and  Nature  every- 
where 

Is  all  alive,  and  sweet  as  she  can  be ; 
A  thousand   happy  sounds  are   in  the 

air, 
A  thousand  by  the  rivers  and  the  sea. 

The  dipping  oar,  the  boatman's  cheer- 
ful horn, 
The  well-sweep,  creaking  in  its  rise 

and  fall ; 

And  pleasantly  along  the  springing  corn, 
The  music  of  the  ploughshare,  best  of 
all,— 

The  insect's  little  hum,  the  whir  and 

beat 
Of  myriad  wings,  the  mower's  song 

so  blithe, 
The  patter  of  the  school-boy's  naked 

feet, 

The  joyous   ringing  of  the  whetted 
scythe,  — 

The  low  of  kine,  the  falling  meadow  bar, 
The  teamster's  whistle  gay,  the  dron- 
ing round 
Of  the  wet  mill-wheel,  and  the  tuneful 

jar 

Of  hollow  milk-pans,  swell  the  gen- 
eral sound. 

And  by  the  sea,  and  in  each  vale  and 

glen 

Are  happy  sights,  as  well  as  sounds 
to  hear, 


io6 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


The   world   of    things,   and   the   great 

world  of  men, 
All,  all  is  busy,  busy  far  and  near. 

The  ant  is  hard  at  work,  and  everywhere 
The  bee  is  balanced  on  her  wings  so 

brown  ; 
And   the   black  spider  on  her  slender 

stair 

Is  running  down  and  up,  and  up  and 
down. 

The  pine-wood  smoke  in  bright,  fantas- 
tic curls, 
Above   the    low  -  roofed    homestead 

sweeps  away, 
And  o'er  the  groups  of  merry  boys  and 

girls 

That  pick  the  berries  bright,  or  rake 
the  hay. 

Morn  on  the  mountains  !  the  enkindling 

skies, 
The  flowery  fields,  the  meadows,  and 

the  sea, 
All  are  so  fair,  the   heart  within  me 

cries, 

How  good,  how  wondrous  good  our 
God  must  be. 


THE   THISTLE   FLOWER. 

MY  homely  flower  that  blooms  along 

The  dry  and  dusty  ways, 
I  have  a  mind  to  make  a  song, 

And  make  it  in  thy  praise  ; 
For  thou  art  favored  of  my  heart, 
Humble  and  outcast  as  thou  art. 

Though  never  with  the  plants  of  grace 

In  garden  borders  set, 
Full  often  have  I  seen  thy  face 

With  tender  tear-drops  wet, 
And  seen  thy  gray  and  ragged  sleeves 
All    wringing   with   them,    morns    and 
eves. 

Albeit  thou  livest  in  a  bush 

Of  such  unsightly  form, 
Thou  hast  not  any  need  to  blush  — 

Thou  hast  thine  own  sweet  charm  ; 
And  for  that  charm  I  love  thee  so, 
And  not  for  any  outward  show. 

The  iron-weed,  so  straight  and  fine, 
Above  thy  head  may  rise, 


And  all  in  glossy  purple  shine ; 

But  to  my  partial  eyes 
It  cannot  harm  thee  —  thou  hast  still 
A  place  no  finer  flower  can  fill. 

The  fennel,  she  is  courted  at 
The  porch-side  and  the  door  — 

Thou  hast  no  lovers,  and  for  that 
I  love  thee  all  the  more  ; 

Only  the  wind  and  rain  to  be 

Thy  friends,  and  keep  thee  company. 

So,  being  left  to  take  thine  ease 

Behind  thy  thorny  wall, 
Thy  little  head  with  vanities 

Has  not  been  turned  at  all, 
And  all  field  beauties  give  me  grace 
To  praise  thee  to  thy  very  face. 

So,  thou  shalt  evermore  belong 
To  me  from  this  sweet  hour, 

And  I  will  take  thee  for  my  song, 
And  take  thee  for  my  flower, 

And   by  the,  great,   and  proud,   and 
high 

Unenvied,  we  will  live  and  die. 


MY  DARLINGS. 

MY  Rose,  so  red  and  round, 
My    Daisy,    darling    of     the    summer 

weather, 
You  must    go   down    now,   and  keep 

house  together, 
Low  underground  ! 

O  little  silver  line 
Of  meadow  water,  ere  the  cloud  rise 

darkling, 
Slip  out  of  sight,  and  with  your  comely 

sparkling 
Make  their  hearth  shine. 

Leaves  of  the  garden  bowers, 
The  frost  is  coming  soon,  —  your  prime 

is  over  ; 
So  gently  fall,  and  make  a  soft,  warm 

cover 
To  house  my  flowers. 

Lithe  willow,  too,  forego 
The   crown  that   makes  you  queen   of 

woodland  graces, 
Nor  leave  the  winds  to  shear  the  lady 

tresses 
From  your  drooped  brow. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


107 


Oak,  held  by  strength  apart 
From  all  the  trees,  stop  now  your  stems 

from  growing, 
And  send  the  sap,  while  yet  't  is  bravely 

flowing, 
Back  to  your  heart. 

And  ere  the  autumn  sleet 
Freeze  into  ice,  or  sift  to  bitter  snow- 
ing, 
Make  compact  with  your  peers  for  over- 

strowing 
My  darlings  sweet. 

So  when  their  sleepy  eyes 
Shall  be   unlocked  by  May  with  rainy 

kisses, 
They  to  the  sweet  renewal  of  old  blisses 

Refreshed  may  rise. 

Lord,  in  that  evil  day 
When   my  own   wicked   thoughts   like 

thieves  waylay  me, 
Or  when  pricked  conscience  rises  up  to 

slay  me, 
Shield  me,  I  pray. 

Aye,  when  the  storm  shall  drive, 
Spread    thy    two    blessed    hands    like 

leaves  above  me, 
And  with  thy  great  love,  though  none 

else  should  love  me, 
Save  me  alive  ! 

Heal  with  thy  peace  my  strife  ; 
And  as  the  poet  with  his  golden  versing 
Lights  his  low  house,  give  me,  thy  praise 
rehearsing, 

To  light  my  life. 

Shed  down  thy  grace  in  showers, 
And  if  some  roots  of  good,  at  thy  ap- 
pearing, 
Be  found  in  me,  transplant  them  for  the 

rearing 
Of  heavenly  flowers. 


THE   FIELD    SWEET-BRIER. 

I  LOVE  the  flowers  that  come   about 

with  spring, 
And  whether  they  be  scarlet,  white, 

br  blue, 
It  mattereth  to  me  not  anything  ; 

For  when  I  see  them  full  of  sun  and 
dew, 


My  heart  doth  get  so  full  with  its  de- 
light, 

I  know  not  blue  from  red,  nor  red  from 
white. 

Sometimes   I  choose   the  lily,  without 

stain  ; 
The  royal  rose  sometimes  the  best  I 

call; 
Then  the   low  daisy,  dancing  with  the 

rain, 
Doth  seem  to  me  the  finest  flower  of 

all; 

And  yet  if  only  one  could  bloom  for  me  — 
I  known  right  well  what  flower  that  one 

would  be ! 

Yea,  so  I  think  my  native  wilding  brier, 
With   just  her  thin  four  leaves,  and 

stem  so  rough, 
Could,  with  her  sweetness,  give  me  my 

desire, 
Aye,  all  my  life  long  give  me  sweets 

enough  ; 

For  though  she  be  not  vaunted  to  excel, 
She  in  all  modest  grace  aboundeth  well. 

And  I  would  have  no  whit  the  less  con- 
tent, 

Because  she  hath  not  won  the  poet's 
voice, 

To  pluck  her  little  stars  for  ornament, 
And  that  no  man  were  poorer  for  my 
choice, 

Since  she  perforce  must  shine  above  the 
rest 

In  comely  looks,  because  I  love  her  best ! 

When  fancy  taketh  wing,  and  wills  to 

g° 
Where  all  selected  glories  blush  and 

bloom, 
I  search  and  find  the  flower  that  used  to 

grow 
Close  by  the  door-stone  of  the  dear 

old  home  — 
The  flower  whose  knitted  roots  we  did 

divide 
For  sad  transplanting,  when  the  mother 

died. 

All  of  the  early  and  the  latter  May, 
And  through    the  windless  heats   of 

middle  June, 
Our  green-armed  brier  held  for  us  day 

by  day, 

The  morning  coolness  till  the  after- 
noon ; 


io8 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  every  bird  that  took  his  grateful 

share, 
Sang   with   a   heavenlier   tongue    than 

otherwhere. 

And  when  from  out  the  west  the  low 

sun  shone, 
It  used  to  make  our  pulses  leap  and 

thrill 
To  see  her  lift  her  shadows  from  the 

stone, 
And  push  it  in  among  us   o'er  the 

sill  — 
O'erstrow  with  flowers,  and  then  push 

softly  in, 
As  if  she  were  our  very  kith  and  kin. 

So,    seeing    still   at    evening's    golden 

close 

This  shadow  with  our  childish  shad- 
ows blend, 

We  came  to  love  our  simple  four-leaved 

rose, 
As  if  she  were  a  sister  or  a  friend. 

And  if  my  eyes  all  flowers  but  one  must 
lose, 

Our  wild  sweet-brier  would  be  the  one 
to  choose. 


THE   LITTLE    HOUSE  ON   THE 
HILL. 

0  MEMORY,  be  sweet  to  me  — 
Take,  take  all  else  at  will, 

So  thou  but  leave  me  safe  and  sound, 
Without  a  token  my  heart  to  wound, 
The  little  house  on  the  hill  ! 

Take  all  of  best  from  east  to  west, 

So  thou  but  leave  me  still 
The  chamber,  where  in  the  starry  light 

1  used  to  lie  awake  at  night 
And  list  to  the  whip-poor-will. 

Take  violet-bed,  and  rose-tree  red, 
And  the  purple  flags  by  the  mill, 

The    meadow    gay,    and    the    garden- 
ground, 

But  leave,  oh  leave  me  safe  and  sound 
The  little  house  on  the  hill  ! 

The  daisy-lane,  and  the  dove's  low  plain 

And  the  cuckoo's  tender  bill, 
Take  one  and  all,  but  leave  the  dreams 
That  turned  the  rafters  to  golden  beams, 
In  the  little  house  on  the  hill ! 


The  gables  brown,  they  have  tumbled 

down, 

And  dry  is  the  brook  by  the  mill ; 
The  sheets  I  used  with  care  to  keep 
Have  wrapt  my  dead  for  the  last  long 

sleep, 
In  the  valley,  low  and  still. 

But,  Memory,  be  sweet  to  me, 
And  build  the  walls,  at  will, 
Of  the  chamber  where  I  used  to  mark, 
So  softly  rippling  over  the  dark, 
The  song  of  the  whip-poor-will ! 

Ah,  Memory,  be  ^weet  to  me  ! 

All  other  fountains  chill  ;          „ 
But  leave  that  song  so  weird  and  wild, 
Dear  as   its   life  to  the   heart  of  the 
child, 

In  the  little  house  on  the  hill ! 


THE  OLD   HOUSE. 

MY  little  birds,  with  backs  as  brown 
As   sand,   and    throats    as  white    as 

frost, 
I   've   searched  the    summer    up   and 

down, 

And  think  the  other  birds  have  lost 
The  tunes  you  sang,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
About  the  old  house,  long  ago. 

My  little  flowers,  that  with  your  bloom 

So  hid  the  grass  you  grew  upon, 
A  child's  foot  scarce  had  any  room 
Between   you,  —  are  you   dead    and 

gone  ? 

I  've  searched  through  fields  and  gar- 
dens rare, 
Nor  found  your  likeness  anywhere. 

My  little  hearts,  that  beat  so  high 
With  love  to  God,  and  trust  in  men, 

Oh,  come  to  me,  and  say  if  I 

But  dream,  or  was  I  dreaming  then, 

What  time  we  sat  within  the  glow 

Of  the  old  house  hearth,  long  ago  ? 

My  little  hearts,  so  fond,  so  true, 

I  searched  the  world  all  far  and  wide, 
And  never  found  the  like  of  you  : 

God  grant  we  meet  the  other  side 
The    darkness    'twixt    us     now    that 

stands, 

In    that   new   house   not  made    with 
hands ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


IO9 


THE   BLACKBIRD. 

"  I  could  not  think  so  plain  a  bird 
Could  sing  so  fine  a  song." 

ONE  on  another  against  the  wall 

Pile  up  the  books,  —  I  am  done  with 

them  all ! 

I  shall  be  wise,  if  I  ever  am  wise, 
Out  of  my  own  ears,  and  of  my  own  eyes. 

One  day  of  the  woods  and  their  balmy 

light,— 

One  hour  on  the  top  of  a  breezy  hill, 
There  in  the  sassafras  all  out  of  sight 
The  blackbird  is  splitting  his  slender 

bill 
For  the  ease  of  his  heart  ! 

Do  you  think  if  he  said 
I  will  sing  like  this  bird  with  the  mud- 
colored  back 
And  the  two  little  spots  of  gold  over  his 

eyes, 
Or  like  to  this  shy  little  creature  that 

flies 
So  low  to  the  ground,  with  the  amethyst 

rings 
About  her  small  throat,  —  all  alive  when 

she  sings 
With  a  glitter  of  shivering  green,  —  for 

the  rest, 
Gray  shading  to  gray,  with  the  sheen  of 

her  breast 
Half  rose  and  half  fawn,  — 

Or  like  this  one  so  proud, 
That  flutters  so  restless,  and  cries  out  so 

loud, 
With  stiff  horny  beak  and  ia  topknotted 

head, 
And  a  lining  of  scarlet  laid  under  his 

wings,  — 
Do  you  think,  if  he  said,  "  I  'm  ashamed 

to  be  black  !  " 

That  he  could  have  shaken  the  sassa- 
fras-tree 
As  he  does  with  the  song  he  was  born 

to  ?  not  he  ! 


CRADLE    SONG. 

ALL  by  the  sides  of  the  wide  wild  river 
Surging  sad  through  the  sodden  land, 

There  be  the  black  reeds  washing  to- 
gether— 
Washing  together  in  rain  and  sand ; 


Going,  blowing,  flowing,  together  — 
Rough  are  the  winds,  and   the  tide 
runs  high  — 

Hush  little  babe  in  thy  silken  cradle  — 
Lull  lull,  lull  lull,  lull  lullaby  ! 

Father  is  riding  home,  little  baby, 
Riding  home  through  the  wind  and 

rain  ; 
Flinty  hoofs  on  the  flag  stems  beating 

Thrum  like  a  flail  on  the  golden  grain. 
All  in  the  wild,  wet  reeds  of  the  low- 
lands, 
Dashed  and  plashed  with  the  freezing 

foam, 
There  be  the  blood-red  wings  of  the 

starlings 
Shining  to  light  and  lead  him  home. 

Spurring     hard     o'er    the    grass-gray 

ridges  — 

Slacking  rein  in  the  low,  wet  land, 
Where  be  the  black  reeds  washing  to- 
gether — 

Washing  together  in  rain  and  sand. 
Down  of  the  yellow-throated  creeper  — 
Plumes  of  the  woodcock,  green  and 

black  — 

Boughs  of  salix,  and  combs  of  honey  — 
These  be  the  gifts  he  is  bearing  back. 

Yester  morning  four  sweet  ground-doves 

Sung  so  gay  to  their  nest  in  the  wall  — 
Oh,  by  the  moaning,  and  oh,  by  the 
droning, 

The  wild,  wild  water  is  over  them  all ! 
Come,  O  morning,  come  with  thy  roses, 

Flame  like  a  burning  bush  in  the  sky — 
Hush,  little  babe,  in  thy  silken  cradle  — 

Lull  lull,  lull  lull,  lull  lullaby  ! 


GOING  TO  COURT. 

THE  farm-lad  quarried  from  the  mow 
The  golden  bundles,  hastily, 

And,  giving  oxen,  colt,  and  cow 

Their  separate  portions,  he  was  free. 

Then,  emptying  all  the  sweet  delight 
Of  his  young  heart  into  his  eyes, 

As  if  he  might  not  go  that  night, 
He  lingered,  looking  at  the  skies. 

The  evening's  silver  plough  had  gone 
Through   twilight's   bank   of    yellow 
haze, 


110 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And^  turned  two  little  stars  thereon  — 
Still  artfully  he  stayed  to  praise 

The  hedge-row's  bloom  —  the  trickling 
run  — 

The  crooked  lane,  and  valley  low  — 
Each  pleasant  walk,  indeed,  save  one, 

And  that  the  way  he  meant  to  go  ! 

In  truth,  for  Nature's  simple  shows 
He   had   no   thoughts  that  night,  to 
spare, 

In  vain  to  please  his  eyes,  the  rose 
Climbed  redly  out  upon  the  air. 

The  bean-flower,  in  her  white  attire 
Displayed  in  vain  her  modest  charms, 

And  apple-blossoms,  all  on  fire, 
Fell  uninvited  in  his  arms. 

When  Annie  raked  the  summer  hay 
Last  year,  a  little  thorn  he  drew 

Out  of  her  white  hand,  such  a  way, 
It  pierced  his  heart  all  through  and 
through. 

Poor  farmer-lad  !  could  he  that  night 
Have  seen  how  fortune's  leaves  were 
writ, 

His  eyes  had  emptied  all  their  light 
Back  to  his  heart,  and  broken  it. 


ON  THE  SEA. 

I  WILL  call  her  when  she  comes  to  me 

My  lily,  and  not  my  wife, 
So  whitely  and  so  tenderly 

She  was  set  in  my  story  life. 

In  vain  her  gentle  eyes  to  please 
The  year  had  done  her  best, 

Setting  her  tides  of  crocuses 
All  softly  toward  the  west  : 

The  bright  west,  where  our  love  was 

born 

And  grew  to  perfect  bloom, 
And  where  the  broad  leaves  of  the 

corn 
Hang  low  about  her  tomb. 

I  hid  from  men  my  cruel  wound 
And  sailed  away  on  the  sea, 

But    like    waves    around    some    hulk 

aground 
Her  love  enfoldeth  me. 


My  clumsy  hands     are   cracked     and 
brown  ; 

My  chin  is  rough  as  a  bur, 
But  under  the  dry  husk  soft  as  down 

Lieth  my  love  for  her. 

One   night  when  storms  were  in   the 
sky  — 

Sailing  away  on  the  sea, 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  doomed  to  die, 

And  that  she  came  to  me. 

They  bound  my  eyes,  but  I  had  sight 
And  saw  her  take  that  hour 

My  head  so  bright  in  her  apron  white 
As  if  it  had  been  a  flower  ! 

No  child  when  I  sit  alone  at  night 
Comes  climbing  on  my  knee, 

But  I  dream  of  love  and  my  heart  is 

light 
As  I  sail  away  on  the  sea. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

IT  was  a  sandy  level  wherein  stood 
The  old  and  lonesome  house  ;  far  as 

the  eye 
Could  measure,  on  the  green  back  of 

the  wood, 
The  smoke  lay  always,  low  and  lazily. 

Down  the  high  gable  windows,  all  one 

way, 
Hung  the  long,  drowsy  curtains,  and 

across 
The  sunken  shingles,   where  the  rain 

would  stay, 

The    roof    was    ridged,    a    hand's- 
breadth  deep,  with  moss. 

The  place   was  all  so  still  you  would 

have  said 
The  picture  of  the  Summer,  drawn, 

should  be 
With  golden  ears,   laid    back  against 

her  head, 
And  listening  to  the  far,  low-lying  sea. 

But  from  the  rock,  rough-grained  and 

icy- crowned, 
Some  little    flower    from   out  some 

cleft  will  rise  ; 

And  in  this  quiet  land  my  love  I  found, 
With  all  their  soft  light,  sleepy,  in. 
her  eyes. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


Ill 


No  bush  to  lure  a  bird  to  sing  to  her  — 
In  depths  of  calm  the  gnats'  faint 
hum  was  drowned, 

And  the  wind's  voice  was  like  a  little  stir 
Of  the  uneasy  silence,  not  like  sound. 

No  tender  trembles  of  the  dew  at  close 

Of  day,  —  at  morn,  no  insect  choir  ; 

No  sweet  bees  at  sweet  work  about  the 

rose, 

Like  little   housewife   fairies    round 
their  fire. 

And  yet  the  place,  suffused  with  her, 

seemed  fair  — 
Ah,  I   would  be   immortal,   could  I 

write 
How  from  her  forehead  fell  the  shining 

hair, 

As   morning   falls  from  heaven  —  so 
bright  !  so  bright. 


SHADOWS. 

WHEN  I  see  the  long  wild  briers 
Waving  in  the  winds  like  fires, 

See  the  green  skirts  of  the  maples 
Barred  with  scarlet  and  with  gold, 
See  the  sunflower,  heavy-hearted, 
Shadows  then  from  days  departed 

Come  and  with  their  tender  trembles 
Wrap  my  bosom,  fold  on  fold. 

I  can  hear  sweet  invitations 
Through  the  sobbing,  sad  vibrations 

Of  the  winds  that  follow,  follow, 
As  from  self  I  seek  to  fly  — 
Come  up  hither  !  come  up  hither  ! 
Leave  the  rough  and  rainy  weather  ! 

Come  up  where  the  royal  roses 
Never  fade  and  never  die  ! 

'T  was  when  May  was  blushing,  bloom- 
ing, 
Brown  bee,  bluebirds,  singing,  humming, 

That  we  built  and  walled  our  chamber 
With  the  emerald  of  leaves  ; 
Made  our  bed  of  yellow  mosses, 
Soft  as  pile  of  silken  flosses, 

Dreamed  our  dreams  in  dewy  bright- 
ness 
Radiant  like  the  morns  and  eves. 

And  it  was  when  woods  were  gleaming, 

And  when  clouds  were  wildly  streaming 

Gray  and  umber,  white  and  ember, 


Streaming  in  the  north  wind's  breath, 
That  my  little  rose-mouthed  blossom 
Fell  and  faded  on  my  bosom, 

Cankered  by  the  coming  coldness, 
Blighted  by  the  frosts  of  death. 

Therefore,  when  I  see  the  shadows, 
Drifting  in  across  the  meadows, 

See  the  troops  of  summer  wild  birds 
Flying  from  us,  cloud  on  cloud, 
Memory  with  that  May-time  lingers, 
And  I  seem  to  feel  the  fingers 

Of  my  lost  and  lovely  darling 
Wrap  my  heart  up  in  her  shroud 


APRIL. 

THE  wild  and  windy  March  once  more 

Has  shut  his  gates  of  sleet, 
And  given  us  back  the  April-time, 

So  fickle  and  so  sweet. 

Now    blighting    with    our    fears,    our 

hopes  — 

Now  kindling  hopes  with  fears  — 
Now     softly     weeping     through     her 

smiles  — 
Now  smiling  through  her  tears. 

Ah,  month   that  comes  with  rainbows 
crowned, 

And  golden  shadows  dressed  — 
Constant  to  her  inconstancy, 

And  faithful  to  unrest. 

The    swallows    'round    the    homestead 
eaves  — 

The  bluebirds  in  the  bowers 
Twitter  their  sweet  songs  for  thy  sake, 

Gay  mother  of  the  flowers. 

The  brooks  that  moaned  but  yesterday 
Through  bunches  of  dead  grass, 

Climb    up    their   banks  with   dimpled 

hands, 
And  watch  to  see  thee  pass. 

The  willow,  for  thy  grace's  sake, 
Has  dressed  with  tender  spray, 

And  all  the  rivers  send  their  mists 
To  meet  thee  on  the  way. 

The  morning  sets  her  rosy  clouds 

Like  hedges  in  the  sky, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  their  dear  old  tunes 

The  winds  of  evening  try. 


112 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Before  another  week  has  gone, 
Each  bush,  and  shrub,  and  tree, 

Will  be  as  full  of  buds  and  leaves 
As  ever  it  can  be. 

I  welcome  thee  with  all  my  heart, 

Glad  herald  of  the  spring, 
And  yet  I  cannot  choose  but  think 

Of  all  thou  dost  not  bring. 

The  violet  opes  her  eyes  beneath 
The  dew-fall  and  the  rain  — 

But  oh,  the  tender,  drooping  lids 
That  open  not  again  ! 

Thou  set'st  the  red  familiar  rose 

Beside  the  household  door, 
But   oh,  the  friends,   the   sweet,  sweet 
friends 

Thou  bringest  back  no  more  ! 

But  shall  I  mourn  that  thou  no  more 

A  short-lived  joy  can  bring, 
Since  death  has  lifted  up  the  gates 

Of  their  eternal  spring  ? 


POPPIES. 

O  LADIES,  softly  fair, 

Who  curl  and  comb  your  hair, 

And  deck  your  dainty  bodies,  eve  and 

morn, 

With  pearls,  and  flowery  spray, 
And  knots  of  ribbons  gay, 

As  if  ye  were  for  idlesse  only  born  : 
Plearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 

But  foolish  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

Whose  lives  but  parts  repeat  — 
Whose  little  dancing  feet 
Swim   lightly  as   the  silverly  mists  of 

morn  : 

Whose  pretty  palms  unclose 
Like  some  fresh  dewy  rose, 
For  dainty  dalliance,   not   for   distaffs 

born  ; 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 
But   flaunting*  poppies    in   among    the 
corn ! 

O  women,  sad  of  face, 
Whose  crowns  of  girlish  grace 
Sin  has  plucked  off,  and  left  ye  all  for- 
lorn— 


Whose  pleasures  do  not  please  — 
Whose    hearts     have    no    hearts'- 

ease  — 
Whose    seeming    honor    is    of    honor 

shorn : 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  one  and  all, 
But  painted  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

Women,  to  name  whose  name 
All  good  men  blush  for  shame, 

And  bad  men  even,  with  the  speech  of 

scorn  ; 

Who  have  nor  sacred  sight 
For  Vesta's  lamps  so  white, 

Nor  hearing  for  old  Triton's  wreathed 

horn  : 

Oh,  hark  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  one  and  all, 

But  poison  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

Women,  who  will  not  cease 
From  toil,  nor  be  at  peace 
Either  at  purple  eve  or  yellowing  morn, 
But  drive  with  pitiless  hand, 
Your    ploughshares    through    the 

land 

Quick  with  the  lives  of  daisies  yet  un- 
born : 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 
But   troublous   poppies   in   among   the 
corn  ! 

Blighting  with  fretful  looks 
The  tender-tasseled  stocks  — 

Sweeping  your  wide-floored  barns  with 

sighs  forlorn 

About  the  unfilled  grains 
And  starving  hunger-pains 

That   on   the   morrow,  haply,  shall  be 

borne : 

Oh,  hark  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all, 

But  forward  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

O  virgins,  whose  pure  eyes 

Hold  commerce  with  the  skies  — 
Whose  lives  lament  that  ever  ye  were 
born  ; 

The  cross  whose  joy  to  wear 
Never  the  rose,  but  only  just  the  thorn  : 

Hearken  to  Wisdom's  call  — 

What  are  ye,  after  all, 
Better  than  poppies  in  among  the  corn  1 

What  better  ?  who  abuse 
The  gifts  wise  women  use, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


With   locks  sheared  off,   and  bosoms 

scourged  and  torn ; 
Lapping  your  veils  so  white 
Betwixt  ye  and  the  light, 
Composed  in  heaven's  sweet  cisterns, 

morn  by  morn  : 
Oh,  hark  to  Wisdom's  call  — 
What  are  ye,  after  all 
Better  than  poppies  in  among  the  corn  ! 

O  women,  rare  and  fine, 
Whose  mouths  are  red  with  wine 
Of  kisses  of  your  children,  night  and 

morn, 

Whose  ways  are  virtue's  ways  — 
Whose     good     works     are     your 

praise  — 
Whose  hearts  hold   nothing   God   has 

made  in  scorn : 
Though  Fame  may  never  call 
Your  names,  ye  are,  for  all, 
The  Ruths  that  stand  breast-high  amid 
the  corn ! 

Your  steadfast  love  and  sure 

Makes  all  beside  it  poor ; 
Your  cares    like   royal   ornaments   are 
worn  ; 

Wise  women  !  what  so  sweet, 

So  queenly,  so  complete 
To  name  ye  by,  since   ever  one  was 
born  ? 

Since  she,  whom  poets  call, 

The  sweetest  of  you  all, 
First  gleaned  with  Boaz  in  among  the 


A   SEA   SONG. 

NOR  far  nor  near  grew  shrub  nor  tree, 
The  bare  hills  stood  up  bleak  behind, 
And  in  between  the  marsh  weeds  gray 
Some  tawny-colored  sand-drift  lay, 
Opening  a  pathway  to  the  sea, 
The  which  I  took  to  please  my  mind. 

In  full  sight  of  the  open  seas 
A  patch  of  flowers  I  chance  to  find, 
As  if  the  May,  being  thereabout, 
Had  from  her  apron  spilled  them  out ; 
And  there  I  lay  and  took  my  ease, 
And  made  a  song  to  please  my  mind. 

Sweet  bed  !  if  you  should  live  full  long, 
A  sweeter  you  will  never  find  — 


Some  flowers  were  red,  and  some  were 

white  ; 

And  in  their  low  and  tender  light 
I  meditated  on  my  song, 
Fitting  the  words  to  please  my  mind. 

Some    sea-waves    on    the    sands    up- 
thrown, 

And  left  there  by  the  wanton  wind, 
With  lips  all  curled  in  homesick  pain 
For  the  old  mother's  arms  again, 
Moved  me,  and  to  their  piteous  moan 
I  set  the  tune  to  please  my  mind. 

But  now  I  would  in  very  truth 
The  flowers  I  had  not  chanced  to  find, 
Nor  lain  their  speckled  leaves  along, 
Nor  set  to  that  sad  tune  my  song  ; 
For  that  which  pleased    my  careless 

youth 
It  faileth  now  to  please  my  mind. 

And  this  thing  I  do  know  for  true, 
A  truer  you  will  never  find, 
No  false  step  e'er  so  lightly  rung 
But  that  some  echo  giving  tongue 
Did  like  a  hound  all  steps  pursue, 
Until  the  world  was  left  behind. 


WINTER  AND   SUMMER. 

THE  winter  goes  and  the  summer  comes, 
And  the  cloud  descends  in  warm,  wet 

showers  ; 
The  grass  grows  green  where  the  frost 

has  been, 

And  waste   and  wayside  are  fringed 
with  flowers. 

The  winter  goes  and  the  summer  comes, 
And  the  merry  bluebirds  twitter  and 

trill, 

And  the  swallow  swings  on  his  steel- 
blue  wings, 

This  way  and  that  way,  at   wildest 
will. 

The  winter  goes  and  the  summer  comes, 
And  the    swallow   he    swingeth    no 

more  aloft, 
And  the  bluebird's  breast  swells  out  of 

her  nest, 

And   the   horniest  bill   of    them  all 
grows  soft. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


The  summer  goes  and  the  winter  comes, 
And  the  daisy  dies  and  the  daffodil 

dies, 
And  the  softest  bill  grows  horny  and 

still, 
And  the   days   set  dimly  and   dimly 


The  summer  goes  and  the  winter  comes 
And  the  red  fire  fades  from  the  heart 

o'  th'  rose, 
And  the  snow  lies  white  where  the  grass 

was  bright, 

And  the  wild  wind  bitterly  blows  and 
blows. 

The  winter  comes  and  the  winter  stays, 
Aye,  cold    and    long   and  long    and 

cold, 

And  the  pulses  beat  to  the  weary  feet, 
And  the  head  feels  sick  and  the  heart 
grows  cold. 

The  winter  comes  and  the  winter  stays, 
And  all  the  glory  behind  us  lies, 

The  cheery  light  drops  into  the  night, 
And  the  snow  drifts  over  our  sight- 
less eyes. 


AUTUMN. 

SHORTER  and  shorter  now  the  twilight 

clips 
The    days,   as    through    the    sunset 

gates  they  crowd, 
And  Summer  from   her   golden   collar 

slips 

And    strays    through     stubble-fields, 
and  moans  aloud, 

Save  when  by  fits  the  warmer  air  de- 
ceives, 

And,  stealing  hopeful  to  some  shel- 
tered bower, 

She  lies  on  pillows  of  the  yellow  leaves, 
And  tries  the  old  tunes  over  for  an 
hour. 

The  wind,  whose  tender  whisper  in  the 

May 
Set   all   the  young  blooms   listening 

through  th'  grove, 

Sits   rustling   in   the  faded  boughs  to- 
day 

And  makes  his  cold  and  unsuccessful 
love. 


The   rose    has    taken   off    her    tire   of 

red  — 
The   mullein -stalk    its   yellow   stars 

have  lost, 
And    the    proud    meadow-pink    hangs 

down  her  head 

Against  earth's  chilly  bosom,  witched 
with  frost. 

The  robin,  that  was  busy  all  the  June, 
Before   the  sun  had   kissed  the  top- 
most bough, 
Catching  our  hearts   up   in  his  golden 

tune, 

Has  given  place  to  the  brown  cricket 
now. 

The    very   cock   crows    lonesomely   at 

morn  — 
Each   flag    and    fern    the    shrinking 

stream  divides  — 

Uneasy  cattle  low,  and  lambs  forlorn 
Creep  to  their  strawy  sheds  with  net- 
tled sides. 

Shut  up  the  door :  who  loves  me  must 

not  look 
Upon  the  withered  world,  but  haste 

to  bring 

His  lighted  candle,  and  his  story-book, 
And  live  with  me  the  poetry  of  spring. 


DAMARIS. 

You   know  th'  forks   of  th'  road,  and 

th'  brown  mill  ? 
And  how  th'   mill-stream,  where  th7 

three  elms  grow, 

Flattens  its  curly  head  and  slips  be- 
low 

That  shelf  of  rocks  which  juts  from  out 
th'  hill  ? 

You   know   th'  field  of  sandstone,  red 

and  gray, 
Sloped  to   th'  south  ?  and  where  th' 

sign-post  stands, 

Silently  lifting  up  its  two  black  hands 
To   point   th'  uneasy    traveler   on    his 
way  ? 

You  must  remember  the  long  rippling 

ridge 

Of  rye,   that  cut  the   level   land   in 
two, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  IIOMEi 


And  changed  from  blue  to  green,  from 

green  to  blue, 

Summer  after  summer  ?     And  th'  one- 
arched  bridge, 

Under  the  which,  with  joy  surpassing 

words, 
We  stole  to  see  beneath  the  speckled 

breast 
Of  th'  wild  mother,  all  the  clay-built 

nest 

Set  round  with  shining  heads  of  little 
birds. 

Well,  midway  'twixt  th'  rye-ridge  and 

th'  mill, 
In  the  old  house  with  windows  to  the 

morn, 
The    village    beauty,    Damaris,    was 

born  — 

There   lives,  in   "  maiden  meditation," 
still. 

Stop   you   and   mark,  if  you   that  way 

should  pass, 

The  old,  familiar  quince  and  apple- 
trees, 
Chafing  against  the  wall  with   every 

breeze, 

And  at  the  door  the  flag-stones,  set  in 
grass. 

There  is  the  sunflower,  with  her  starry 

face 
Leaned  to  her  love ;  and  there,  with 

pride  elate, 

The  prince's-feather — at  th'  garden- 
gate 

The  green-haired  plants,  all  gracious  in 
their  place. 

You  '11  think  you  have  not  been  an  hour 

away  — 
Seeing   the   stones,    th'   flowers,    the 

knotty  trees, 

And  'twixt  the  palings,  strings  of  yel- 
low bees, 

Shining    like    streaks    of    light  —  but, 
welladay  ! 

If    Damaris    happen    at    the    modest 

door, 
In   gown   of  silver  gray  and  cap   of 

snow  — 
Your  May-day  sweetheart,  forty  years 

ago  — 
The    brief    delusion    can    delude    no 


WOODLAND,  green  and  gay  with  dew, 
Here,  to-day,  I  pledge  anew 
All  the  love  I  gave  to  you 

When  my  heart  was  young  and  glad, 
And  in  dress  of  homespun  plaid, 
Bright  as  any  flower  you  had, 

Through  your  bushy  ways  I  trod, 
Or,  lay  hushed  upon  your  sod 
With  my  silence  praising  God. 

Never  sighing  for  the  town  — 

Never  giving  back  a  frown 

To  the  sun  that  kissed  me  brown. 

When  my  hopes  were  of  such  stuff, 
That  my  days,  though  crude  enough, 
Were  with  golden  gladness  rough  — 

Timid  creatures  of  the  air  — 
Little  ground-mice,  shy  and  fair  — 
You  were  friendly  with  me  there. 

Beeches  gray,  and  solemn  firs, 
Thickets'full  of  bees  and  burs, 
You  were  then  my  school-masters, 

Teaching  me  as  best  you  could, 

How  the  evil  by  the  good  — 

Thorns  by  flowers  must  be  construed. 

Rivulets  of  silvery  sound, 
Searching  close,  I  always  found 
Fretting  over  stony  ground. 

And  in  hollows,  cold  and  wet, 

Violets  purpled  into  jet 

As  if  bad  blood  had  been  let ; 

While  in  every  sunny  place, 
Each  one  wore  upon  her  face 
Looks  of  true  and  tender  grace. 

Leaning  from  the  hedge-row  wall, 
Gave  the  rose  her  sweets  to  all, 
Like  a  royal  prodigal. 

And  the  lily,  priestly  white, 
Made  a  little  saintly  light 
In  her  chapel  out  of  sight. 

Heedless  how  the  spider  spun  — 
Heedless  of  the  brook  that  run 
Boldly  winking  at  the  sun. 


n6 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


When  the  autumn  clouds  did  pack 

Hue  on  hue,  unto  that  black 

That  's  bluish,  like  a  serpent's  back, 

Emptying  all  their  cisterns  out, 
While  the  winds  in  fear  and  doubt 
Whirled  like  dervises  about, 

And  the  mushroom,  brown  and  dry, 
On  the  meadow's  face  did  lie, 
Shrunken  like  an  evil  eye  — 

Shrunken  all  its  fleshy  skin, 
Like  a  lid  that  wrinkles  in 
Where  an  eyeball  once  had  been. 

How  my  soul  within  me  cried, 

As  along  the  woodland  side 

All  the  flowers  fell  sick  and  died. 

But  when  Spring  returned,  she  said, 
"They  were  sleeping,  and  not  dead 
Thus  must  light  and  darkness  wed." 

Since. that  lesson,  even  death 
Lies  upon  the  glass  of  faith, 
Like  the  dimness  of  a  breath. 


KATRINA  ON  THE   PORCH. 

A   BIT   OF  TURNER   PUT   INTO   WORDS. 

AN  old,  old  house  by  the  side  of  the  sea, 
And  never  a  picture  poet  would  paint ; 
But  I  hold  the  woman  above  the  saint, 

And  the  light  of  the  hearth  is  more  to  me 
Than  shimmer  of  air-built  castle. 

It  fits  as  it  grew  to  the  landscape  there — 
One  hardly  feels  as  he  stands  aloof 
Where  the  sandstone  ends,  and  the 
red  slate  roof 

Juts  over  the  window,  low  and  square, 
That  looks  on  the  wild  sea-water. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  so  green  and 

high 

There  slopeth  a  level  of  golden  moss, 
That  bars  of  scarlet  and  amber  cross, 

And  rolling  out  to  the  farther  sky 
Is  the  world  of  wild  sea-water. 

Some   starved    grape-vineyards    round 

about  — 

A  zigzag  road  cut  deep  with  ruts  — 
A  little  cluster  of  fisher's  huts, 


And  the  black  sand  scalloping  in  and  out 
'Twixt  th'  land  and  th'  wild  sea-water. 

Gray  fragments  of  some  border  towers, 
Flat,  pellmell  on  a  circling  mound, 
With  a  furrow  deeply  worn  all  round 

By  the   feet   of    children   through   the 

flowers, 
And  all  by  the  wild  sea-water. 

And  there,  from  the  silvery  break  o'  th' 

day 
Till  the  evening  purple  drops  to  the 

land, 
She  sits  with  her  cheek  like  a  rose  in 

her  hand, 

And  her  sad  and  wistful  eyes  oneway — 
The  way  of  the  wild  sea- water. 

And  there,  from  night  till  the  yellowing 

morn 
Falls  over  the  huts  and  th7  scallops  of 

sand  — 
A  tangle  of  curls  like  a  torch  in  her 

hand  — 

She  sits  and  maketh  her  moan  so  lorn, 
With  the  moan  of  the  wild  sea-water. 

Only  a  study  for  homely  eyes, 

And  never  a  picture  poet  would  paint ; 

But  I  hold  the  woman  above  the  saint, 
And  the  light  of  the  humblest  hearth  I 
prize 

O'er  the  luminous  air-built  castle. 


THE   WEST   COUNTRY. 

HAVE  you  been  in  our  wild  west  coun- 
try ?  then 

You  have  often  had  to  pass 
Its  cabins  lying  like  birds'  nests  in 

The  wild  green  prairie  grass. 

Have  you  seen  the  women  forget  their 
wheels 

As  they  sat  at  the  door  to  spin  — 
Have  you  seen  the  darning  fall  away 

From  their  fingers  worn  and  thin, 

As  they  asked  you  news  of  the  villages 
Where  they  were  used  to  be, 

Gay  girls  at  work  in  the  factories 
With  their  lovers  gone  to  sea  ! 

Ah,  have  you  thought  of  the  bravery 
That  no  loud  praise  provokes  — 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


117 


Of  the  tragedies  acted  in  the  lives 
Of  poor,  hard-working  folks  ! 

Of  the  little  more,  and  the  little  more 
Of  hardship  which  they  press 

Upon  their  own  tired  hands  to  make 
The  toil  for  the  children  less  : 

And  not  in  vain  ;  for  many  a  lad 
Born  to  rough  work  and  ways, 

Strips  off  his  ragged  coat,  and  makes 
Men  clothe  him  with  their  praise. 


THE   OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

WHEN  skies   are  growing   warm  and 
bright, 

And  in  the  woodland  bowers 
The    Spring-time    in    her    pale,    faint 
robes 

Is  calling  up  the  flowers, 
When  all  with  naked  little  feet 

The  children  in  the  morn 
Go  forth,  and  in  the  furrows  drop 

The  seeds  of  yellow  corn ; 
What  a  beautiful  embodiment 

Of  ease  devoid  of  pride 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  its  doors  set  open  wide  ! 

But  when  the  happiest  time  is  come, 

That  to  the  year  belongs, 
When  all  the  vales  are  filled  with  gold 

And  all  the  air  with  songs  ; 
When  fields  of  yet  unripened  grain, 

And  yet  ungarnered  stores 
Remind  the  thrifty  husbandman 

Of  ampler  threshing-floors, 
How  pleasant,  from  the  din  and  dust 

Of  the  thoroughfare  aloof, 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  steep  and  mossy  roof  ! 

When  home  the  woodsman  plods  with 
axe 

Upon  his  shoulder  swung, 
And  in  the  knotted  apple-tree 

Are  scythe  and  sickle  hung  ; 
When  low  about  her  clay-built  nest 

The  mother  swallow  trills, 
And  decorously  slow,  the  cows 

Are  wending  down  the  hills  ; 
What  a  blessed  picture  of  comfort 

In  the  evening  shadows  red, 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  its  bounteous  table  spread  ! 


And  when  the  winds  moan  wildly, 

When  the  woods  are  bare  and  brown, 
And  when  the  swallow's  clay-built  nest 

From  the  rafter  crumbles  down  ; 
When  all  the  untrod  garden-paths 

Are  heaped  with  frozen  leaves, 
And  icicles,  like  silver  spikes, 

Are  set  along  the  eaves  ; 
Then  when  the  book  from  the  shelf  is 
brought, 

And  the  fire-lights  shine  and  play, 
In  the  good  old-fashioned"  homestead, 

Is  the  farmer's  holiday  ! 

But  whether  the  brooks  be  fringed  with 
flowers, 

Or  whether  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  whether  the  air  be  full  of  songs, 

Or  never  a  song  at  all, 
And  whether   the  vines   of   the  straw- 
berries 

Or  frosts  through  the  grasses  run, 
And  whether  it  rain  or  whether  it  shine 

Is  all  to  me  as  one, 
For  bright  as  brightest  sunshine 

The  light  of  memory  streams 
Round  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

Where    I    dreamed     my    dream    of 
dreams ! 


CONTRADICTION. 

I  LOVE  the  deep  quiet  —  all  buried  in 

leaves, 

To  sit  the  day  long  just  as  idle  as  air, 
Till  the  spider  grows  tame  at  my  elbow, 

and  weaves, 

And   toadstools   come   up   in  a  row 
round  my  chair. 

I  love  the  new  furrows  —  the  cones  of 

the  pine, 
The    grasshopper's    chirp,   and    the 

hum  of  the  mote  ; 
And    short     pasture-grass    where    the 

clover-blooms  shine 
Like  red  buttons  set  on  a  holiday  coat. 

Flocks   packed    in    the    hollows  —  the 

droning  of  bees, 
The   stubble   so   brittle  —  the   damp 

and  flat  fen  ; 
Old  homesteads  I  love,  in  their  clusters 

of  trees, 

And   children    and    books,    but    not 
women  nor  men. 


n8 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Yet,   strange   contradiction !   I   live   in 

the  sound 
Of  a  sea-girdled  city — 't  is  thus  that 

it  fell, 
And  years,  oh,  how  many  !  have  gone 

since  I  bound 

A  sheaf  for  the  harvest,  or  drank  at  a 
well. 

And  if,  kindly  reader,  one  moment  you 

wait 
To  measure  the  poor  little  niche  that 

you  fill, 
I   think   you  will  own  it  is  custom  or 

fate 

That  has  made  you  the  creature  you 
are,  not  your  will. 


MY  DREAM  OF  DREAMS. 

ALONE  within  my  house  I  sit ; 

The  lights  are  not  for  me, 
The  music,  nor  the  mirth  ;  and  yet 

I  lack  not  company. 

So  gayly  go  the  gay  to  meet, 
Nor  wait  my  griefs  to  mend  — 

My  entertainment  is  more  sweet 
Than  thine,  to-night,  my  friend. 

"Whilst  thou,  one  blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Bewail'st  my  weary  hours, 
Upon  my  native  hills  I  stand 

Waist-deep  among  the  flowers. 

I  envy  not  a  joy  of  thine  ; 

For  while  I  sit  apart 
Soft  summer,  oh,  fond  friend  of  mine, 

Is  with  me  in  my  heart. 

Aye,   aye,    I  'm    young    to-night    once 
more  ; 

The  years  their  hold  have  loosed, 
And  on  the  clear  old  homestead  door 

I  'm  watching,  as  I  used, 

The  sunset  hang  its  scarlet  fringe 
Along  the  low  white  clouds, 

While,  radiant  with  their  tender  tinge, 
My  visions  come  in  crowds. 

The  doves  fly  homeward  over  me, 
The  red  rose  bravely  gleams, 

And  first  anxl  last  and  midst  I  see 
The  dream  of  all  my  dreams. 


I  need  not  say  what  dream  it  was, 

Nor  how  in  life's  lost  hours 
It  made  the  glory  of  the  grass 

The  splendor  of  the  flowers. 

I  need  not  wait  to  paint  its  glow 
With  rainbow  light  nor  sun  ; 

Who  ever  loved  that  did  not  know 
There  is  no  dream  but  one  ? 

My    frosty    locks    grow    bright    and 
brown  ; 

My  step  is  light  once  more  ; 
The  world  now  dropping  darkly  down 

Comes  greenly  up  before. 

Comes  greenly  up  before  my  eyes, 
With  gracious  splendor  clad, 

That  world  which  now  behind  me  lies 
So  darkly  dim,  so  sad. 

Shot  over  with  the  purpling  morn, 

I  see  the  long  mists  roll, 
And  hear  beneath  the  tasseled  corn 

The  winds  make  tender  dole. 

I  hear,  and  all  my  pulses  rouse 
And  give  back  trembling  thrills, 

The  farm-boy  calling  with  his  cows 
The  echoes  from  the  hills. 

So  soft  the  plashing  of  the  rain 
Upon  the  peach-tree  leaves, 

It  hardly  breaks  the  silvery  skein 
The  dark-browed  spider  weaves. 

The  grasshopper  so  faintly  cries 
Beneath  the  dock's  round  burs 

That  in  the  shadow  where  she  lies 
The  silence  scarcely  stirs. 

Bright  tangles  of  the  wings  of  birds 

Along  the  thickets  shine, 
But  oh,  how  poor  are  common  words 

To  tell  of  bliss  divine  ! 

So  let  thy  soft  tears  cease  to  fall, 
My  friend,  nor  longer  wait  ; 

I  have  my  recompense  for  all 
Thou  pitiest  in  my  fate, 

The  joys  thou  hold'st  within  thy  glance 
Thou  canst  not  make  to  last ; 

Mine  are  uplifted  to  romance  — 
Immortal,  changeless,  fast. 

When  pleasures  fly  too  far  aloof, 
Or  pain  too  sorely  crowds, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


I  go  and  sit  beneath  my  roof 
Of  golden  morning  clouds. 

There  back  to  life  my  dead  hope  starts, 
And  well  her  pledge  redeems, 

As  close  within  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  hug  my  dream  of  dreams. 


IN  THE  DARK. 

HAS  the  spring  come  back,  my  darling, 

Has  the  long  and  soaking  rain 

Been  moulded  into  the  tender  leaves 

Of  the  gay  and  growing  grain  — 

The  leaves  so  sweet  of  barley  and  wheat 

All  moulded  out  of  the  rain  ? 

Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  grow, 

Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  blow, 

All  over  field  and  plain  — 

The  billows  sweet  of  barley  and  wheat 

All  moulded  out  of  the  rain. 

Are  the  flowers  dressed  out,  my  darling, 
In  their  kerchiefs  plain  or  bright  — 
The  groundwort   gay,  and  the  lady  of 

May, 

In  her  petticoat  pink  and  white  ? 
The  fair  little  flowers,  the   rare  little 

flowers, 

Taking  and  making  the  light  ? 
Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  see  them  all, 
The  little  and  low,  the  proud  and  tall, 
In  their  kerchiefs  brave  and  bright, 
Stealing  out  of  the  morns  and  eves, 
To  braid  embroidery  round  their  leaves, 
The  gold  and  scarlet  light. 

Have  the  birds  come  back,  my  darling, 

The  birds  from  over  the  sea  ? 

Are  they  cooing  and  courting  together 

Tn  bush  and  bower  and  tree  ? 

The  mad  little  birds,  the  glad  little  birds, 

The  birds  from  over  the  sea  ! 

Oh,  and  I  would  I  could  hear  them  sing, 

Oh,   and    I  would   I   could  see   them 

swing 

In  the  top  of  our  garden  tree  ! 
The  mad   little  birds,   the   glad  little 

birds, 
The  birds  from  over  the  sea  ! 

Are  they  building  their  nests,  my  dar- 
ling, 

In  the  stubble,  brittle  and  brown  ? 

Are  they  gathering  threads,  and  silken 
shreds, 


And  wisps  of  wool  and  crown, 

With  their  silver  throats  and  speckled 

coats, 

And  eyes  so  bright  and  so  brown  ? 
Oh,   and   I   would   I   could    see    them 

make 
And  line  their  nests  for  love's  sweet 

sake, 

With  shreds  of  wool  and  down, 
With  their  eyes  so  bright  and  brown ! 


AN  INVALID'S   PLEA. 

O    SUMMER  !    my   beautiful,    beautiful 

summer ! 
I  look  in  thy  face,  and  I  long  so  to 

live  ; 
But  ah  !    hast   thou  room  for  an   idle 

new-comer, 
With   all   things   to   take,   and   with 

nothing  to  give  ? 
With   all   things   to   take   of  thy  dear 

loving-kindness, 
The  wine  of  thy  sunshine,  the  dew  of 

thy  air ; 

And  with  nothing  to  give  but  the  deaf- 
ness and  blindness 

Begot  in  the  depths  of  an  utter  de- 
spair ? 

As  if  the  gay  harvester  meant  but  to 

screen  her, 
The  black  spider  sits  in  her  low  loom, 

and  weaves : 
A   lesson  of  trust  to  the   tender-eyed 

gleaner 
That  bears  in  her  brown  arms  the 

gold  of  the  sheaves. 
The  blue-bird  that  trills  her  low  lay  in 

the  bushes 
Provokes  from  the  robin  a  merrier 

glee; 
The  rose  pays  the  sun  for  his  kiss  with 

*1ier  blushes, 

And  all  things  pay  tithes  to  thee  — 
all  things  but  me. 

At  even,  the  fire-flies  trim  with  their 

glimmers 
The  wild,  weedy  skirts  of  the  field 

and  the  wood ; 

At   morning,  those   dear  little   yellow- 
winged  swimmers, 

The  butterflies,  hasten  to  make  their 
place  good. 


120 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    GARY. 


The   violet,   always    so   white    and    so 

saintly  ; 
The  cardinal,  warming  the  frost  with 

her  blaze  ; 

The  ant,   keeping   house  at  her  sand- 
hearth  so  quaintly 

Reproaches    my    idle    and    indolent 
ways. 

When  o'er  the  high  east  the  red  morn- 
ing is  breaking, 
And  driving  the  amber  of  starlight 

behind, 
The  land  of  enchantment  I  leave,  on 

awaking, 
Is  not  so  enchanted  as  that  which  I 

find. 
And  when  the  low  west  by  the  sunset 

is  flattered, 

And  locust  and  katydid  sing  up  their 
best, 


Peace  comes  to  my  thoughts,  that  were 

used  to  be  fluttered, 
Like    doves   when    an    eagle's   wing 
darkens  their  nest. 

The  green  little  grasshopper,  weak  as 

we  deem  her, 
Chirps,  day  in  and  out,  for  the  sweet 

right  to  live  ; 
And    canst    thou,   O    summer !    make 

room  for  a  dreamer, 
With   all   things   to   take,   and   with 

nothing  to  give  ? 
Room  only  to  wrap  her  hot  cheeks  in 

thy  shadows, 


And  all  on  thy  daisy-fringed  pillows 

to  lie, 
And  dream  of  the  gates  of  the  glorious 

meadows, 
Where   never  a   rose  of   the    roses 

shall  die  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


THE  BRIDAL  VEIL. 

WE  'RE  married,  they  say,  and  you  think 

you  have  won  me,  — 
Well,  take  this  white  veil  from  my  head, 

and  look  on  me  ; 
Here  's  matter  to  vex  you,  and  matter 

to  grieve  you, 
Here  's  doubt  to  distrust  you,  and  faith 

to  believe  you,  — 
I   am   all   as   you  see,  common  earth, 

common  dew  ; 
Be  wary,  and  mould  me  to  roses,  not 

rue ! 

Ah !  shake  out  the  filmy  thing,  fold 
after  fold, 

And  see  if  you  have  me  to  keep  and  to 
hold,  — 

Look  close  on  my  heart  —  see  the  worst 
of  its  sinning,  — 

It  is  not  yours  to-day  for  the  yester- 
day's winning  — 

The  past  is  not  mine  —  I  am  too  proud 
to  borrow  — 

You  must  go  to  new  heights  if  I  love 
you  to-morrow. 

We  're  married  !  I  'm  plighted  to  hold 
up  your  praises, 

As  the  turf  at  your  feet  does  its  hand- 
ful of  daisies ; 

That  way  lies  my  honor,  —  my  pathway 
of  pride, 

But,  mark  you,  if  greener  grass  grow 
either  side, 

I  shall  know  it,  and  keeping  in  body 
with  you, 

Shall  walk  in  my  spirit  with  feet  on  the 
dew ! 

We  're   married !     Oh,   pray  that   our 

love  do  not  fail ! 
I  have  wings  flattened  down  and  hid 

under  my  veil  : 


They  are    subtle    as    light  —  you    can 

never  undo  them, 
And    swift    in    their   flight  —  you    can 

never  pursue  them, 
And  spite  of  all  clasping,  and  spite  of 

all  bands, 
I  can  slip  like  a  shadow,  a  dream,  from 

your  hands. 

Nay,  call  me  not  cruel,  and  fear  not  to 

take  me, 
I  am  yours  for  my  life-time,  to  be  what 

you  make  me,  — 
To  wear  my  white  veil  for  a  sign,  or  a 

cover, 
As  you  shall  be  proven  my  lord,  or  my 

lover ; 
A  cover  for  peace  that  is  dead,  or  a 

token 
Of  bliss  that  can  never  be  written  or 

spoken. 


PITILESS   FATE. 

I    SAW    in    my    dream    a   wonderful 

stream, 
And  over  the  stream  was  a  bridge  so 

slender, 
And  over  the  white  there  was  scarlet 

light, 

And  over  the  scarlet  a  golden  splen- 
dor. 

And  beyond  the  bridge  was  a  goodly 

ridge 
Where  bees  made   honey  and  corn 

was  growing, 
And  down  that  way  through  the  gold 

and  gray 

A  gay  young  man  in  a  boat  was  row- 
ing. 


122 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


I  could  see  from  the  shore  that  a  rose 

he  wore 
Stuck  in  his  button-hole,  rare  as  the 

rarest, 

And  singing  a  song  and  rowing  along, 
I  guessed  his  face  to  be  fair  as  the 
fairest. 

And  all  by  the  corn  where  the  bees  at 

morn 

Made  combs  of  honey  —  with  breath- 
ing bated, 
I   saw   by   the   stream    (it  was  oaly  a 

dream ) 

A    lovely    lady    that    watched     and 
waited. 

There  were  fair  green  leaves   in  her 

silken  sleeves, 
And  loose  her  locks  in  the  winds  were 

blowing, 

And  she  kissed  to  land  with  her  milk- 
white  hand 

The  gay  young  man  in  the  boat  a-row- 
ing. 

And  all  so  light  in  her  apron  white 
She  caught  the  little  red  rose  he  cast 

her, 
And,  "  Haste  !  "  she  cried,  with  her  arms 

so  wide, 

"  Haste,  sweetheart,  haste  ! "  but  the 
boat  was  past  her. 

And    the  gray  so  cold  ran  over  the 

gold, 
And  she  sighed  with  only  the  winds  to 

hear  her  — 
"  He  loves  me  still,  and  he  rowed  with 

a  will, 

But  pitiless  Fate,  not  he,  was  steer- 
er !" 

And  there  till  the  morn  blushed  over  the 

corn, 
And   over   the   bees   in   their   sweet 

combs  humming, 
Her    locks    with     the    dew    drenched 

through  and  through 
She  watched  and  waited  for  her  false 
love's  coming  ! 

But  the  maid  to-day  who  reads  my  lay 
May  keep  her  young  heart  light  as  a 

feather  — 
It  was  only  a  dream,  the  bridge  and  the 

stream, 
And  lady  and  lover,  and  all  together. 


THE   LOVER'S   INTERDICT. 

STOP,  traveler,  just  a  moment  at  my 

gate, 
And  I  will   give  you  news   so  very 

sweet 
That  you  will  thank  me.     Where  the 

branches  meet 
Across  your  road,  and  droop,  as  with  the 

weight 
Of  shadows  laid  upon  them,  pause,  I 

pray, 
And  turn  aside  a  little  from  your  way. 

You  see  the   drooping  branches  over- 
spread 

With  shadows,  as  I  told  you  —  look 
you  now 

To  the  high  elm-tree  with  the  dead 

white  bough 

Loose  swinging  out  of  joint,  and  there, 
with  head 

Tricked  out  with  scarlet,  pouring  his 
wild  lay, 

You  see  a  blackbird  :  turn  your  step 
that  way. 

Holding  along  the  honeysuckle  hedge, 
Make  for  the  meadows  lying  down  so 

low  ; 
Ah  !  now  I  need  not  say  that  you  must 


go 

rthe 


No  farther  than  that  little  silver  wedge 
Of  daisy-land,  pushed  inward  by  the 

flood 
Betwixt  the  hills  —  you  could  not,  if 

you  would. 

For  you  will  see  there,  as  the  sun  goes 
down, 

And  freckles  all  the  daisy  leaves  with 
gold, 

A  little  maiden,  in  their  evening  fold 
Penning   two   lambs  —  her   soft,   fawn- 
colored  gown 

Tucked  over   hems   of    violet,  by  a 
hand 

Dainty  as  any  lady's  in  the  land. 

Such  gracious  light  she  will  about  her 

bring, 
That,  when  the  day,  being  wedded  to 

the  shade, 
Wears  the  moon's  circle,  blushing,  as 

the  maid 

Blushes  to  wear  the  unused  marriage- 
ring, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


123 


And  all  the  quickened  clouds  do  fall 

astir 
With  daffodils,  your  thoughts  will  stay 

with  her. 

No  ornaments  but  her   two  sapphire 

eyes, 
And  the  twin  roses  in  her  cheeks  that 

grow, 
The  nice-set  pearls,  that  make  so  fine 

a  show 
When  that  she  either  softly  smiles  or 

sighs, 
And  the  long  tresses,  colored  like  a 

bee  — 

Brown,    with    a    sunlight    shimmer. 
You  will  see, 

When  you  have  ceased  to  watch  the 

airy  spring 
Of  her  white  feet,  a  fallen  beech  hard 

by, 

The  yellow  earth  about  the  gnarled 

roots  dry, 
And  if  you  hide  there,  you  will  hear  her 

sing 
That  song  Kit  Marlowe  made  so  long 

ago  — 
"  Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love," 

you  know. 

Dear  soul,  you  would  not  be  at  heaven's 
high  gate 

Among   the   larks,  that   constellated 
hour, 

Nor    locked    alone   in    some   green- 
hearted  bower 

Among  the  nightingales,  being  in  your 
fate, 

By  fortune's  sweet  selection,  graced 
above 

All  grace,  to  hear  that  —  Come,  and 
be  my  love  ! 

But  when  the  singer  singeth  down  the 

sweets 
To  that  most  maiden-like  and  lovely 

bed  — 
All    out    of    soft    persuasive    roses 

spread  — 
You  must  not  touch  the  fair  and  flowery 

sheets 
Even  in  your  thought !  and  from  your 

perfect  bliss 
I  furthermore  must  interdict  you  this  : 

When  all  the  wayward  mists,  because 
of  her, 


Lie  in  their  white  wings,  moveless,  on 
the  air, 

You  must  not  let  the  loose  net  of  her 

hair 

Drag   your    heart    to   her  !    nor   from 
hushed  breath  stir 

Out  of  your  sacred  hiding.    As  you 
guess 

She  is  my  love  —  this  woodland  shep- 
herdess. 

The  cap,  the  clasps,  the  kirtle  fringed 

along 
With  myrtles,  as  the  hand  of  dear  old 

Kit 

Did  of  his  cunning  pleasure  broider  it, 
To  ornament  that  dulcet  piece  of  song 
Immortalled  with   refains  of — Live 

with  me  ! 

These  to  your  fancy,  one  and  all  are 
free. 

But,  favored  traveler,  ere  you  quit  my 

gate, 

Promise  to  hold  it,  in  your  mind  to  be 
Enamored  only  of  the 'melody, 
Else  will  I  pray  that  all  yon  woody  weight 
Of  branch  and  shadow,  as  you  pass 

along, 

Crush  you  among  the  echoes  of  the 
song. 


SNOWED   UNDER. 

COME  let  us  talk  together, 

While  the  sunset  fades  and  dies, 
And,  darling,  look  into  my  heart, 

And  not  into  my  eyes. 

Let  us  sit  and  talk  together 
In  the  old,  familiar  place, 

But  look  deep  .down  into  my  heart, 
Not  up  into  my  face. 

And  with  tender  pity  shield  me  — 
I  am  just  a  withered  bough  — 

I  was  used  to  have  your  praises, 
And  you  cannot  praise  me  now. 

You  would  nip  the  blushing  roses  ; 

They  were  blighted  long  ago, 
But  the  precious  roots,  my  darling, 

Are  alive  beneath  the  snow. 

And  in  the  coming  spring-time 
They  will  all  to  beauty  start  — 


124 


POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Oh,  look  not  in  my  face,  beloved, 
But  only  in  my  heart ! 

You  will  not  find  the  little  buds, 

So  tender  and  so  bright  ; 
They  are  snowed  so  deeply  under, 

They  will  never  come  to  light. 

So  look,  I  pray  you,  in  my  heart, 

And  not  into  my  face, 
And  think  about  that  coming  spring 

Of  greenness  and  of  grace, 

When  from  the  winter-laden  bough 
The  weight  of  snow  shall  drop  away, 

And  give  it  strength  to  spring  into 
The  life  of  endless  May. 


AN   EMBLEM. 

WHAT  is  my  little  sweetheart  like,  d' 

you  say  ? 

A  simple  question,  yet  a  hard,  to  an- 
swer ; 
But  I  will  tell  you  in  my  stammering 

way 
The  best  I  can,  sir. 

When    I   was   young  —  that 's   neither 

here  nor  there  — 
I  read,  and  reading  made  my  eyelids 

glisten  ; 

But  I  '11  repeat  the  story,  if  you  care 
To  stay  and  listen. 

A  wild  rose,  born  within  a  modest  glen, 
And  sheltered  by  the  leaves  of  thorny 

bushes, 
Drooped,  being  commended  to  the  eyes 

of  men, 
And  died  of  blushes. 

Now,  if  there  were  —  and  one  may  well 

suppose 
There  never  was   a  flower  of  such 

rare  splendor, 

Much  less  a  rudely  nurtured  wilding  rose 
Withal  so  tender  — 

But  say  there  were  ;  what  is  a  rose  the 

less, 
When  all  from  east  to  west  the  May 

is  blazing, 
That  any  tuneful  bard  her  face  should 

miss, 
And  give  her  praising  ? 


Only 


Yet  say  there   did,  and  that  her  heart 

did  break, 
As   tells   the   romance  of    my  early 

reading, 
Then  I  that  fair,  fond  flower  for  emblem 

take  — 
Sir,  are  you  heeding  ?  — 

Aye,  say  there  were,  and  that  she  spent 

her  days 
In   ignorance    of    her   proud    poetic 

glory  ; 

her  soft    death  making    to    the 

praise 
Of  her  brief  story  : 

Even  such  a  wild,  bright  flower,  and  so 

apart 
In   her  low  modest   house,  my  little 

maid  is  — 
Sweet-hearted,  shy,  and  strange  to   all 

the  art 
Of  your  fine  ladies. 

So  tender,  that  to  death  she  needs  must 

grieve, 
Stabbed  by  the  glances  of  bold  eyes, 

is  certain  ; 
Take  you  the  emblem,  then,  and  give 

me  leave 
To  drop  the  curtain. 


QUEEN   OF   ROSES. 

MY  little  love  hath  made 
A  garden   that   all   sweetest  sweetness 
holds, 

And  there  for  hours  upon  a  piece  of 

shade 

Fringed  round  with  marjoram  and  mari- 
golds, 

She   lieth   dreaming,  on  her  arm  of 
pearl, 

My  pretty  little  love  —  my  garden-girl. 

The  walks  are  one  and  all 
Enriched  along  their  borders  with  wild 

mint, 
And  pinks,  and  gilliflowers,  both  large 

and  small  ; 
But  where   her   little  feet   do   leave   a 

print, 
Whether  on  grass  or  ground,  it  doth 

displace 
And    make    of    non-effect    all    other 

grace. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


125 


Her  speech  is  all  so  fair 
The  winds  disgraced,  do  from  her  pres- 
ence run, 

And   when   she    combeth   loose   her 

heavenly  hair 
She  giveth  entertainment  to  the  sun. 

Oh,  just  to  touch  the  least  of  all  thy 
curls, 

My  golden  head  —  my  queen  of  gar- 
den-girls. 

Her  shawl-corners  of  snow 
Like  wings  drop  down  about  her  when 

she  stands 
And  never  queen's  lace  made  so  fair 

a  show 
As  that  doth,  knitted  in  her  two  white 

hands ; 
The  while  some  sudden  look  of  cold 

surprise 
Shoots   like   an   angry  cornet  to  her 

eyes. 

When  she  doth  walk  abroad 
Her   subject   flowers   do    one    and    all 

arise  ; 
The  low  ones  housed  meekly  in  the 

sod 
Do  kiss  her  feet  —  the  lofty  ones,  her 

eyes. 
Oh  sad  for  him  whose  seeing   hath 

not  seen 
My  rose  of  roses,  and  my  heart's  dear 

queen. 

I  'm  tying  all  my  hours 
With  sighs  together  —  "  Welladay  !  ah 

me  ! " 
Because  T  cannot  choose  nor  words, 

nor  flowers, 
Wherewith   to  lure   my  love   to  marry 

me  ! 
I  '11  ask  her  what  the  wretched  man 

must  say 
Who  loves  a  saint,  and  woo  her  just 

that  way. 

Else  in  some  honeyed  phrase 
I  '11   fit   a   barb   no  clearest  sight    can 

see, 
And  toss  it  up  and  down  all  cunning 

ways, 
Until  I  catch   and  drag  her  heart  to 

me  ! 
Ah,  then  I  '11  tease  her,  for  my  life  of 

pain, 
For   she    shall   never  have  it   back 

again. 


NOW   AND   THEN. 


"  SING  me  a  song,  my  nightingale, 
Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers  ; 
And  make  it  low,"  he  said,  "  I  pray, 
And   make   it   sweet."     But   she   said, 

««  Nay  ; 

Come  when  the  morn  begins  to  trail 
Her  golden  glories  o'er  the  gray  — 
Morn  is  the  time  for  love's  all-hail ! " 
He  said,  "  The  morning  is  not  ours  ! 

"  Then  give  me  back,  my  heart's  delight, 

Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers, 
The  kiss  I  gave  you  yesterday  — 

See  how  the  moon  this  way  has  leant, 
As  if  to  yield  a  soft  consent. 
Surely,"  he  said,  "  you  will  requite 
My  love  in  this  ?  "   But  she  said  "  Nay." 
"  Yea,  now,"   he   said.     But   she   said, 

"  Hush  ! 

And  come  to  me  at  morning-blush." 
He  said,  "  The  morning  is  not  ours  ! 

"  But  say,  at  least,  you  love  me,  love. 

Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers  ; 
No  winds  are  listening,  far  or  near  — 
The  sleepy  doves  will  never  hear." 

"  Ah,  leave  me  in  my  sacred  glen  ; 

And  when  the  saffron  morn  shall  close 

Her  misty  arms  about  the  rose, 
Come,  and  my  speech,  my  thought  shall 

prove  — 

Not  now,"   she  said;  "not  now,   but 
then." 

He  said,  "  The  morning  is  not  ours  !  " 


THE   LADY   TO   THE   LOVER. 

SINCE  thou  wouldst  have  me  show 
In  what   sweet  way  our  love  appears 

to  me, 
Think   of  sweet  ways,  the   sweetest 

that  can  be, 
And    thou    may'st    partly  dream,    but 

canst  not  know  : 
For  out  of  heaven  no  bliss  — 
Disshadowed  lies,  like  this, 
Therefore  similitudes  thou  must  forego. 

Thou  seem'st  myself's  lost  part, 
That  hath,  in  a  new  compact,  dearer 

close ; 
And   if  that  thou   shouldst    take    a 

broken  rose 


126 


777^  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  fit  the  leaves  again  about  the  heart, 
That  mended  flower  would  be 
A  poor,  faint  sign  to  thee 

Of    how    one's    self    about    the   other 
grows. 

Think  of  the  sun  and  dew 

Walled  in  some  little  house  of  leaves 

from  sight, 
Each  from  the  other  taking,   giving 

light, 
And      interpenetrated      through      and 

through  ; 

Feeding,  and  fed  upon  — 
All  given,  and  nothing  gone, 
And  thou  art  still  as  far  as  day  from 
night. 

Sweeter  than  honey-comb 

To   little    hungry   bees,    when    rude 

winds  blow ; 
Brighter  than  wayside  window-lights 

that  glow 
Through  the  cold  rain,  to  one  that  has 

no  home  ; 

But  out  of  heaven,  no  bliss 
Disshadowed  lies,  like  this,  — 
Therefore  similitudes  thou  must  forego. 


LOVE'S  SECRET  SPRINGS. 

IN  asking  how  I  came  to  choose 

This  flower  that  makes  my  brow  to 

shine, 

You  seem  to  say,  you  did  not  lose 
Your  choice,  my  friend,  when  I  had 

mine  ! 

And  by  your  lifted  brow,  exclaim, 
"  What   charms    have    charmed    you  ? 
name  their  name  !  " 

Nay,  pardon  me  —  I  cannot  say 

These  are  the  charms,  and  those  the 
powers, 

And  being  in  a  trance  one  day, 

I  took  her  for  my  flower  of  flowers. 

Love  doth  not  flatter  what  he  gives  — 

But  here,  sir,  are  some  negatives. 

'T  is  not  the  little  milk-white  hands 
That  grace  whatever  work  they  do  ; 

'T  is  not  the  braided  silken  bands 
That  shade  the  eyes  of  tender  blue  ; 

And  not  the  voice  so  low  and  sweet 

That  holds  me  captive  at  her  feet. 


'T  is  not  in  frowns,  knit  up  with  smi?^i. 

Wherewith   she    scolds    me   for   my 

sins, 
Nor  yet  in  tricksy  ways  nor  wiles 

That  I  can  say  true  love  begins  ! 
Out  of  such  soil  it  did  not  grow  ; 
It  was,  —  and  that  is  all  I  know. 

'T  is  not  her  twinkling  feet  so  small, 
Nor  shoulder  glancing  from  her  sleeve, 

Nor  yet  her  virtues,  one  nor  all  — 
Love  were  not  love  to  ask  our  leave ; 

She  was  not  wooed,  nor  was  I  won  — 

What  draws  the  dew-drop  to  the  sun: 

Pardon  me,  then,  I  cannot  tell,  — 
Nor  can  you  hope  to  understand,  — 

Why  I  should  love  my  love  so  well ; 
Nor  how,  upon  this  border  land, 

It  fell  that  she  should  go  with  me 

Through  time  into  eternity. 


AT   SEA. 

BROWN-FACED  sailor,  tell  me  true  — 
Our  ship  I  fear  is  but  illy  thriving, 
Some  clouds  are    black  and  some  are 

blue, 

The  women   are  huddled  together  be- 
low, 

Above  the  captain  treads  to  and  fro  ; 
Tell  me,  for  who  shall  tell  but  you, 
Whither  away  our  ship  is  driving  ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  a  storm  this  way, 
The  bubbles  irj  my  face    are  wink- 
ing— 
'T  is  growing  dark   in   the   middle  of 

day 

And  I  cannot  see  the  good  green  land, 
Nor   a   ridge   of    rock,    nor  a   belt   of 

sand  ; 
Oh,  kind  sailor,  speak  and  say, 

How  long  might  a  little  boat  be  sink- 
ing? 

More  saucily  the  bubbles  wink  ; 

God's    mercy    keep     us     from    foul 

weather, 
And  from   drought  with    nothing   but 

brine  to  drink. 
I  dreamed  of  a  ship  with  her  ribs  stove 

in, 
Last  night,  and  waking  thought  of  my 

sin ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


127 


How  long  would  a  strong  man  swim, 

d1  y'  think, 
If  we  were  all  in  th'  sea  together  ? 

The  sailor  frowned  a  bitter  frown, 
And  answered,    "  Aye,  there  will  be 

foul  weather, — 
All   men    must    die,   and    some    must 

drown, 
And  there  is  n't  water  enough   in  the 

sea 

To  cleanse  a  sinner  like  you  or  me  ; 
O  Lord,  the  ships  I  've  seen  go  down, 
Crew  and  captain  and  all  together  !  " 

The  sailor  smiled  a  smile  of  cheer, 

And  looked  at  me  a  look  of  wonder, 
And  said,  as  he  wiped  away  a  tear, 
"  Forty  years  I  've  been  off  the  land 
And  God  has  held  me  safe  in  his  hand  : 
He  ruleth  the   storm  —  He  is  with  us 

here, 

And  his  love  for  us  no  sin  can  sun- 
der." 


A  CONFESSION. 

I  KNOW  a  little  damsel 

As  light  of  foot  as  the  air, 
And  with  smile  as  gay 
As  th'  sun  o'  th'  May 

And  clouds  of  golden  hair. 
She  sings  with  the  larks  at  morning, 

And  sings  with  the  doves  at  e'en, 
And  her  cheeks  they  shine 
Like  a  rose  on  the  vine, 

And  her  name  is  Charlamine. 
To  plague  me  and.to  please  me 

She  knows  a  thousand  arts, 
And  against  my  will 
I  love  her  still 

With  all  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 

I  know  another  damsel 

With  eyelids  lowly  weighed, 
And  so  pale  is  she 
That  she  seems  to  me 

Like  a  blossom  blown  in  the  shade. 
Her  hands  are  white  as  charity, 

And  her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 
And  she  runneth  quick 
To  the  sinful  and  sick, 

And  her  name  is  Marguerite. 
The  broken  and  bowed  in  spirit 

She  maketh  straight  and  whole, 
And  1  sit  at  her  knee 


And  she  sings  to  me, 

And  I  love  her  with  my  soul. 

I  know  a  lofty  lady, 

And  her  name  is  Heleanore. 
And  th'  king  o'  the  sky 
In  her  lap  doth  lie 

When  she  sitteth  at  her  door. 
Her  shoulder  is  curved  like  an  eagle's 
wing 

WThen  he  riseth  on  his  way, 
And  my  two  little  maids 
They  laid  in  braids 

Her  dark  locks  day  by  day. 
Her  heart  in  the  folds  of  her  kerchief 

It  doth  not  fall  or  rise, 
And  afar  I  wait 
At  her  royal  gate, 

And  I  love  her  with  my  eyes  ! 

Now  you  that  are  wise  in  love-lore, 

Come  teach  your  arts  to  me, 
For  each  of  the  darling  damsels 

Is  as  sweet  as  she  can  be  ! 
And  if  I  wed  with  Charlamine 

Of  the  airy  little  feet, 
I  shall  sicken  and  sigh, 
I  shall  droop  and  die, 

For  my  gentle  Marguerite  ! 
And  if  I  wed  with  Marguerite, 

Whom  I  so  much  adore, 
I  shall  long  to  go 
From  her  hand  of  snow 

To  my  Lady  Heleanore  ! 
And  if  I  wed  with  Heleanore,    " 

Whom  with  my  eyes  I  love, 
'Gainst  all  that  is  right, 
In  my  own  despite, 

I  shall  false  and  faithless  prove. 


EASTER  BRIDAL  SONG. 

HASTE,  little  fingers,  haste,  haste  ! 

Haste,  little  fingers,  pearly  ; 
And  all  along  the  slender  waist, 

And  up  and  down  the  silken  sleeves 

Knot  the  darling  and  dainty  leaves, 
And  wind  o'  the  south,  blow  light  and 
fast, 

And  bring  the  flowers  so  early  ! 

Low,  droop  low,  my  tender  eyes, 

Low,  and  all  demurely, 
And  make  the  shining  seams  to  run 
Like  little  streaks  o'  th'  morning  sun 

Through  silver  clouds  so  purely  j 


128 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  fall,  sweet  rain,  fall  out  o'  th'  skies, 
And  bring  the  flowers  so  early  ! 

Push,  little  hands,  from  the  bended  face, 
The  tresses  crumpled  curly, 

And  stitch  the  hem  in  the  frill  of  snow 

And  give  to  the  veil  its  misty  flow, 
And  melt,  ye  frosts,  so  surly  ; 

And  shine  out,  spring,  with  your  days 

of  grace, 
And  bring  the  flowers  so  early  ! 


PRODIGAL'S    PLEA. 

SHINE  down,  little  head,  so  fair, 
From  thy  window  in  the  wall ; 

Oh,  my  slighted  golden  hair, 

Like  the  sunshine  round  me  fall  — 

Little  head,  so  fair,  so  bright, 

Fill  my  darkness  with  thy  light ! 

Reach  me  down  thy  helping  hand, 
Little  sweetheart,  good  and  true  ; 

Shamed,  and  self-condemned,  I  stand, 
And  wilt  thou  condemn  me  too  ? 

Soilure  of  sin,  be  sure 

Cannot  harm  thy  hand  so  pure. 

With  thy  quiet,  calm  my  cry 
Pleading  to  thee  from  afar. 

Is  it  not  enough  that  I 

With  myself  should  be  at  war? 

With  thy  cleanness,  cleanse  my  blood 

With  thy  goodness,  make  me  good. 

Eyes  that  loved  me  once,  I  pray, 
Be  not  crueller  than  death  : 

Hide  each  sharp-edged  glance  away 
Underneath  its  tender  sheath  ! 

Make  me  not,  sweet  eyes,  with  scorn 

Mourn  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

Oh,  my  roses  !  are  ye  dead  ; 

That  in  love's  delicious  day, 
Used  to  flower  out  ripe  and  red, 

Fast  as  kisses  plucked  away? 
Turn  thy  pale  cheek,  little  wife  ; 
Let  me  warm  them  back  to  life. 

I  have  wandered,  oh,  so  far  ! 

From  the  way  of  truth  and  right ; 
Shine  out  for  my  guiding  star, 

Little  head,  so  dear  and  bright; 
Dust  of  sin  is  on  my  brow  — 
Good  enough  for  both,  art  thou ! 


THE  SEAL  FISHER'S  WIFE. 

THE  west  shines  out  through  lines  of 

jet, 
Like   the   side   of   a  fish   through   the 

fisher's  net, 

Silver  and  golden-brown ; 
And  rocking  the  cradle,   she  sings  so 

low, 
As  backward  and  forward,  and  to  and 

fro, 
She  cards  the  wool  for  her  gown. 

She  sings  her  sweetest,  she  sings  her 

best, 
And  all  the  silver  fades  in  the  west, 

And  all  the  golden-brown, 
And  lowly  leaning  cradle  across, 
She  mends   the  fire  with  faggots   and 

moss, 
And  cards  the  wool  for  her  gown. 

Gray  and  cold,  and  cold  and  gray, 
Over  the  look-out  and  over  the  bay, 

The  sleet  comes  sliding  down, 
And  the  blaze  of  the  faggots  flickers 

thin, 
And  the  wind  is  beating  the  ice-blocks 

in, 
As  she  cards  the  wool  for  her  gown. 

The  fisher's  boats  in  the  ice  are  crushed. 
And  now  her  lullaby-song  is  hushed, — 

For  sighs  the  singing  drown, — 
And  all,  with  fingers  stiff  and  cold, 
She  covers  the  cradle,  fold  on  fold, 

With  the  carded  wool  of  her  gown. 

And  there  —  the  cards  upon  her  knee, 
And   her  eyes  wide   open  toward   the 
sea, 

Where  the  fisher's  boats  went  down  — 
They  found  her  all  as  cold  as  sleet, 
And  her  baby  smiling  up  so  sweet, 

From  the  carded  wool  of  her  gown. 


CARMIA. 

MY  Carmia,  my  life,  my  saint, 

No  flower  is  sweet  enough  to  paint 

Thy  sweet,  sweet  face  for  me  ! 
The  rose-leaf  nails,  the  slender  wrist, 
The  hand,  the  whitest  ever  kissed  — 
Dear  Carmia,  what  has  Raphael  missed 

In  never  seeing  thee  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


129 


Oh  to  be  back  among  the  days 
Wherein    she    blessed    me    with    her 
praise  — 

She  knew  not  how  to  frown  ! 
The  memory  of  that  time  doth  seem 
Like  dreaming  of  a  lovely  dream, 
Or  like  a  golden  broider-seam 

Stitched  in  some  homely  gown. 

No  silken  skein  is  half  so  soft 

As  those  long  locks  I  combed  so  oft  — 

No  tender  tearful  skies  — 
No  violet  darkling  into  jet  — 
And  all  with  daybreak  dew-drops  wet  — 
No  star,  when  first  the  sun  is  set, 

Is  like  my  Carmia's  eyes. 

But  not  the  dainty  little  wrist, 
Nor  hand,  the  whitest  ever  kissed, 

Nor  face,  so  sweet  to  see, 
Nor  words  of  praise,  that  so  did  bless, 
Nor  rose-leaf  nail,  nor  silken  tress, 

Made  her  so  dear  to  me. 

'T  was    nothing    my  poor  words    can 

tell, 
Nor  charm  of  chance,  nor  magic  spell 

To  wane,  and  waste,  and  fall  — 
I  loved  her  to  the  utmost  strain 
Of  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  brain, 
And  Carmia  loved  me  back  again, 

And  that  is  all-and-all ! 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

IN  the  pleasant  spring-time  weather 

Rosy  morns  and  purple  eves — 
When  the  little  birds  together 

Sit  and  sing  among  the  leaves, 
Then  it  seems  as  if  the  shadows 

With  their  interlacing  boughs, 
Had  been  hung  above  the  meadows 

For  the  plighting  of  their  vows  ! 

In  the  lighter,  warmer  weather, 

When  the  music  softly  rests, 
And  they  go  to  work  together 

For  the  building  of  their  nests  ; 
Then  the  branches,  for  a  wonder, 

Seem  uplifted  everywhere, 
To  be  props  and  pillars  under 

Little  houses  in  the  air. 

But  when  we  see  the  meeting 
Of  the  lives  that  are  to  run 


Henceforward  to  the  beating 
Of  two  hearts  that  are  as  one, 

When  we  hear  the  holy  taking 
Of  the  vows  that  cannot  break, 

Then  it  seems  as  if  the  making 
Of  the  world  was  for  their  sake. 


JENNIE. 

Now  tell  me  all  my  fate,  Jennie,  — 

Why  need  I  plainer  speak  ? 
For  you  see  my  foolish  heart  has  bled 

Its  secret  in  my  cheek  ! 

You  must  not  leave  me  thus,  Jennie,— 
You  will  not,  when  you  know 

It  is  my  life  you  're  treading  on 
At  every  step  you  go. 

Ah,  should  you  smile  as  now,  Jennie, 
When  the  wintry  weather  blows, 

The  daisy,  waking  out  of  sleep, 

Would  come  up  through  the  snows. 

Shall  our  house  be  on  the  hill,  Jennie, 
Where  the  sumach  hedges  grow  ? 

You  must  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it 's  yes, 
And  kiss  me  if  it 's  no. 

It  shall  be  very  fine  —  the  door 

With  bean -vines  overrun, 
And   th'   window   toward   the   harvest- 
field 

Where  first  our  love  begun. 

What  marvel  that  I  could  not  mow 
When  you  came  to  rake  the  hay, 

For  I   cannot   speak  your   name,  Jen- 
nie, 
If  I  've  nothing  else  to  say. 

Nor  is  it  strange  that  when  I  saw 
Your  sweet  face  in  a  frown, 

I  hung  my  scythe  in  the  apple-tree, 
And  thought  the  sun  was  down. 

For  when  you  sung  the  tune  that  ends 

With  such  a  golden  ring, 
The  lark  was  made  ashamed,  and  sat 

With  her  head  beneath  her  wing. 

You  need  not  try  to  speak,  Jennie, 

You  blush  and  tremble  so, 
But  kiss  me,  darling,  if  it 's  yes, 

And  kiss  me  if  it 's  no  ! 


130 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


MIRIAM. 

LIKE  to  that  little  homely  flower 

That   never  from  her  rough    house 
stirs 

While  summer  lasts,  but  sits  and  combs 
The  sunbeams  with  her  purple  burs, 

So  kept  she  in  her  house  content 

While  love's  bright  summer  with  her 

stayed  ; 
But  change  works  change,  and  since  she 

met 
A  shadow  from  the  land  of  shade  ; 

The  ghost  of  that  wild  flower  that  sits 
In  her  rough  house,  and  never  stirs 

While  summer  lasts,  has  not  a  face 
So  dead  of  meaning,  as  is  hers. 

In  vain  the  pitying  year  puts  on 
Her     rose-red     mornings,   for     like 
streams 


Lost  from  the  sunlight  under  banks 
Of  wintry  darkness,  are  her  dreams. 

In  vain  among  their  clouds  of  green 
The  wild  birds  sing  —  she  says  with 

tears 
Their  sweet   tongues   stammer   in   the 

tunes 
They  sang  so  well  in  other  years. 

Her  home  in  ruins  lies,  and  thorns 
Choke   with   their   briery   arms,   the 
door  ; 

What  matter,  says  she,  since  that  love 
Will  cross  the  threshold,  never  more. 


O  WINDS  !  ye  are  too  rough,  too  rough  ! 
O  spring  !  thou  art  not  long  enough 

For  sweetness  ;  and  for  thee, 
O  love  !  thou  still  must  overpass 
Time's  low  and  dark  and  narrow  glass, 

And  fill  eternity. 


POEMS 


OF 


GRIEF   AND   CONSOLATION. 


MOURN   NOT. 

O  MOURNER,  mourn  not  vanished  light) 
But  fix  your  fearful  hopes  above  ; 

The  watcher,   through   the   long,  dark 

night, 
Shall  see  the  daybreak  of  God's  love. 

A  land  all  green  and  bright  and  fair, 
Lies  just  beyond  this  vale  of  tears, 

And  we  shall  meet,  immortal  there, 
The  pleasures  of  our  mortal  years. 

He  who  to  death  has  doomed  our  race, 
With   steadfast   faith   our   souls  has 
armed, 

And  made  us  children  of  his  grace 
To  go  into  the  grave,  unharmed. 

The   storm   may   beat,   the   night  may 

close, 
The  face  may  change,  the  blood  run 

chill, 

But  his  great  love  no  limit  knows, 
And  therefore  we  should  fear  no  ill. 

Dust  as  we  are,  and  steeped  in  guilt, 
How   strange,   how   wondrous,   how 
divine, 

That  He  hath  for  us  mansions  built, 
Where  everlasting  splendors  shine. 

Our  days  with  beauty  let  us  trim, 
As   Nature   trims   with   flowers   the 
sod  ; 

Giving  the  glory  all  to  Him,  — 

Our  Friend,  our  Father,  and  our  God. 


CONSOLATION. 

O  FRIENDS,  we  are  drawing  nearer  home 
As  day  by  day  goes  by ; 


Nearer  the  fields  of  fadeless  bloom, 
The  joys  that  never  die. 

Ye  doubting  souls,  from  doubt  be  free,— 
Ye  mourners,  mourn  no  more, 

For  every  wave  of  death's  dark  sea 
Breaks  on  that  blissful  shore. 

God's  ways  are  high  above  our  ways,  — 

So  shall  we  learn  at  length, 
And  tune  our  lives  to  sing  his  praise 

With  all  our  mind,  might,  strength. 

About  our  devious  paths  of  ill 

He  sets  his  stern  decrees, 
And  works  the  wonder  of  his  will 

Through  pains  and  promises. 

Strange  are  the  mysteries  He  employs, 

Yet  we  his  love  will  trust, 
Though   it   should  blight   our   dearest 
joys. 

And  bruise  us  into  dust. 


UNDER    THE   SHADOW. 

MY  sorrowing  friend,  arise  and  go 
About  thy  house  with  patient  care  ; 

The  hand  that  bows  thy  head  so  low 
Will  bear  the  ills  thou  canst  not  bear. 

Arise,  and  all  thy  tasks  fulfill, 

And  as  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be  ; 

Were  there  no  power  beyond  the  ill, 
The  ill  could  not  have  come  to  thee. 

Though    cloud  and  storm  encompass 

thee, 

Be  not  afflicted  nor  afraid  ; 
Thou   knowest   the   shadow  could  not 

be 
Were  there  no  sun  beyond  the  shade. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


For  thy  beloved,  dead  and  gone, 
Let  sweet,  not  bitter,  tears  be  shed  ; 

Nor  "  open  thy  dark  saying  on 

The  harp,"  as  though  thy  faith  were 
dead. 

Couldst   thou   even    have    them   reap- 
pear 

In  bodies  plain  to  mortal  sense, 
How  were  the  miracle  more  clear 
To   bring   them   than   to   take   them 
hence  ? 

Then  let  thy  soul  cry  in  thee  thus 

No   more,    nor   let    thine   eyes   thus 
weep ; 

Nothing  can  be  withdrawn  from  us 
That  we  have  any  need  to  keep. 

Arise,  and  seek  some  height  to  gain 
From  life's  dark  lesson  clay  by  clay, 

Not  just  rehearse  its  peace  and  pain  — 
A  wearied  actor  at  the  play. 

Nor  grieve  that  will  so  much  transcends 
Thy  feeble  powers,  but  in  content 

Do  what  thou  canst,  and  leave  the  ends 
And  issues  with  the  Omnipotent. 

Dust  as  thou  art,  and  born  to  woe, 
Seeing    darkly,    and    as    through    a 

glass, 
He  made  thee  thus  to  be,  for  lo  ! 

He   made   the   grass,  and  flower   of 
grass. 

The  tempest's  cry,  the  thunder's  moan, 
The  waste  of  waters,  wild  and  dim, 

The    still    small    voice    thou    hear'st 

alone  — 
All,  all  alike  interpret  Him. 

Arise,  my  friend,  and  go  about 

Thy   darkened   house  with    cheerful 
feet; 

Yield  not  one  jot  to  fear  nor  doubt, 
But,  baffled,  broken,  still  repeat  : 

"  'T  is  mine  to  work,  and  not  to  win  ; 

The    soul    must    wait    to    have    her 

wings,; 
Even  time  is  but  a  landmark  in 

The  great  eternity  of  things. 

"  Is  it  so  much  that  thou  below, 
O  heart,  shouldst  fail  of  thy  desire, 

When  death,  as  we  believe  and  know, 
Is  but  a  call  to  come  up  higher  ? " 


LOST   LILIES. 

SHOW  you  her  picture  ?     Here  it  lies  ! 

H$nds  of  lilies,  and  lily-like  brow  ; 
Mouth  that  is  bright  as  a  rose,  and  eyes 

That  are  just  the  soul's  sweetest  over- 
flow. 

Darling  shoulders,  softly  pale, 
Borne  by  the  undulating  play 

Of  the  life  below,  up  out  of  their  veil, 
Like  lilies  out  o'  the  waves  o'  the  May. 

Throat  as  white  as  the  throat  of  a  swan, 
And  all  as  proudly  graceful  held  ; 

Fair,  bare  bosom,  "  clothed  upon 
With  chastity,"  like  the  lady  of  eld. 

Tender  lids,  that  drooping  down, 
Chide  your  glances  overbold  ; 

Fair,  with  a  golden  gleam  in  the  brown, 
And  brown  again  in  the  gleamy  gold. 

These  on  your  eyes  like  a  splendor  fall, 
And  you  marvel  not  at  my  love,  I  see  ; 

But  it  was  not  one,  and  it  was  not  all, 
That  made  her  the  angel  she  was  to 
me. 

So  shut  the  picture  and  put  it  away, 
Your  fancy  is  only  thus  misled  ; 

What  can  the  dull,  cojd  semblance  say, 
When  the  spirit  and  life  of  the  life  is 
fled? 

Seven  long  years,  and  seven  again, 
And   three    to   the   seven  —  a  weary 
space  — 

The  weary  fingers  of  the  rain 

Have  drawn  the  daisies  over  her  face. 

Seven  and  seven  years,  and  three, 
The  leaves  have  faded  to  death  in  the 

frost, 

Since  the  shadow  that  made  for  me 
The   world   a    shadow   my   pathway 
crossed. 

And  now  and  then  some  meteor  gleam 
Has   broken   the   gloom   of  my   life 

apart, 
Or   the   only   thread   of  some   raveled 

dream 
Has  slid  like  sunshine  in  my  heart. 

But  never  a  planet,  steady  and  still, 
And  never  a  rainbow,  brave  and  fine, 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


133 


And  never  the  flowery  head  of  a  hill 
Has   made   the   cloud  of   my  life  to 
shine. 

Yet  God  is  love  !  and  this  I  trust, 
Though  summer  is  over  and  sweet- 
ness done, 

That  all  my  lilies  are  safe,  in  the  dust, 
As  they  were  in  the  glow  of  the  great, 
glad  sun. 

Yea,  God  is  love,  and  love  is  might  ! 

Mighty  as  surely  to  keep  as  to  make  ; 
And  the  sleepers,  sleeping  in  death's 
dark  night, 

In  the  resurrection  of  life  shall  wake. 


A    WONDER. 

STILL  alway  groweth  in  me  the  great 

wonder, 
When  all  the  fields  are  blushing  like 

the  dawn, 
And  only  one  poor  little  flower  ploughed 

under, 
That  I  can  see   no  .flowers,  that  one 

being  gone  : 
No  flower  of  all,  because  of  one  being 

gone. 

Aye,   ever  in   me  groweth    the    great 

wonder, 
When  all  the  hills  are  shining,  white 

and  red, 
And  only  one  poor  little  flower  ploughed 

under, 
That  it  were  all  as   one   if   all  were 

dead  : 
Aye,  all  as  one  if  all  the  flowers  were 

dead. 

I  cannot  feel  the  beauty  of  the  roses  ; 
Their   soft   leaves   seem   to   me   but 

layers  of  dust ; 
Out  of  my  opening  hand  each  blessing 

closes  : 
Nothing  is  left  to   me  but   my  hope 

and  trust, 

Nothing  but  heavenly  hope  and  heav- 
enly trust. 

I   get    no   sweetness    of    the    sweetest 

places  ; 

My  house,  my  friends  no  longer  com- 
fort me  ; 


Strange  somehow  grow  the  old  familiar 

faces  ; 
For  I  can  nothing  have,  not  having 

thee  : 
All  my  possessions  I  possessed 

through  thee. 

Having,  I  have  them  not  —  strange  con- 
tradiction ! 

Heaven  needs  must  cast  its  shadow 

on  our  earth  ; 

Yea,  droVn  us  in  the  waters  of  afflic- 
tion 

Breast   high,  to  make   us   know  our 
treasure's  worth, 

To  make  us  know  how  much  our  love 
is  worth. 

And  while  I  mourn,  the  anguish  of  my 
story 

Breaks,  as   the  wave   breaks   on  the 

hindering  bar  : 

Thou  art  but  hidden  in  the  deeps   of 
glory, 

Even  as  the  sunshine  hides  the  les- 
sening star, 

And  with  true  love  I  love  thee  from 
afar. 

I  know  our  Father  must  be  good,  not 

evil, 
And  murmur  not,  for  faith's  sake,  at 

my  ill ; 

Nor  at  the  mystery  of  the  working  cavil, 
That  somehow  bindeth  all  things  in 

his  will, 

And,  though  He  slay  me,  makes  me 
trust  Him  still. 


MOST  BELOVED. 

MY  heart  thou  makest  void,  and  full ; 

Thou  giv'st,  thou  tak'st  away  my  care  ; 
O  most  beloved  !  most  beautiful  ! 

I  miss,  and  find  thee  everywhere  ! 

In  the  sweet  water,  as  it  flows  ; 

The  winds,  that  kiss  me  as  they  pass  ; 
The  starry  shadow  of  the  rose, 

Sitting  beside  her  on  the  grass  ; 

The  daffodilly  trying  to  bless 

With  better  light  the  beauteous  air; 

The  lily,  wearing  the  white  dress 
Of  sanctuary,  to  be  more  fair ; 


134 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


The  lithe-armed,  dainty-fingered  briar, 
That  in  the  woods,  so  dim  and  drear, 

Lights  up  betimes  her  tender  fire 
To  soothe  the  homesick  pioneer  ; 

The  moth,  his  brown  sails  balancing 
Along  the  stubble,  crisp  and  dry  ; 

The   ground-flower,   with    a  blood-red 

ring 
On  either  hand  ;  the  pewet's  cry ; 

The  friendly  robin's  gracious  note  ; 

The  hills,  with  curious  weeds  o'errun  ; 
The  althea,  in  her  crimson  coat 

Tricked  out  to  please  the  wearied 
sun  ; 

The  dandelion,  whose  golden  share 
Is  set  before  the  rustic's  plough  ; 

The  hum  of  insects  in  the  air  ; 

The  blooming  bush ;  the  withered 
bough  ; 

The  coming  on  of  eve  ;  the  springs 
Of  daybreak,  soft  and  silver  bright ; 

The  frost,  that  with  rough,  rugged  wings 
Blows  down  the  cankered  buds  ;  the 
white, 

Long  drifts  of  winter  snow  ;  the  heat 
Of  August  falling  still  and  wide  ; 

Broad  corn  fields  ;  one  chance  stalk  of 

wheat, 
Standing  with  bright  head  hung  aside  : 

All  things,  my  darling,  all  things  seem 
In  some  strange    way   to    speak   of 
thee; 

Nothing  is  half  so  much  a  dream, 
Nothing  so  much  reality. 


MY  DARLINGS. 

WHEN  steps  are  hurrying  homeward, 
And  night  the  world  o'erspreads, 

And  I  see  at  the  open  windows 
The  shining  of  little  heads, 

I  think  of  you,  my  darlings, 

In  your  low  and  lonesome  beds. 

And  when  the  latch  is  lifted, 
And  I  hear  the  voices  glad, 

I  feel  my  arms  more  empty, 
My  heart  more  widely  sad  ; 

For  we  measure  dearth  of  blessings 
By  the  blessings  we  have  had. 


But  sometimes  in  sweet  visions 
My  faith  to  sight  expands, 

And  with  my  babes  in  his  bosom, 
My  Lord  before  me  stands, 

And  I  feel  on  my  head  bowed  lowly 
The  touches  of  little  hands. 

Then  pain  is  lost  in  patience, 
And  tears  no  longer  flow  : 

They  are  only  dead  to  the  sorrow 
And  sin  of  life,  I  know  ; 

For  if  they  were  not  immortal 
My  love  would  make  them  so. 


IN  DESPAIR. 

I  KNOW  not  what  the  world  may  be,  — 
For  since  I  have  nor  hopes  nor  fears, 
All  things  seem  strange  and  far  to  me, 
As  though  I  had  sailed  on  some  sad  sea, 
For  years  and  years,  and  years  and 
years ! 

Sailed  through  blind  mists,  you  under- 
stand, 
And    leagues    of    bleak    and    bitter 

foam  ; 

Seeing  belts  of  rock  and  bars  of  sand, 
But  never  a  strip  of  flowery  land, 
And  never  the  light  of  hearth  or  home. 

All  day  and  night,  all  night  and  day, 
I  sit  in  my  darkened  house  alone  ; 
Come  thou,  whose  laughter  sounds  so 

gav» 
Come   hither,   for   charity   come  !   and 

say 

What  flowers  are  faded,  and  what  are 
blown. 

Does  the  great,  glad  sun,  as  he  used  to, 

rise  ? 

Or  is  it  always  a  weary  night  ? 
A  shadow  has  fallen  across  my  eyes, 
Come   hither  and    tell   me   about    the 

skies,  — 

Are   there   drops  of  rain  ?  are  there 
drops  of  light  ? 

Keep  not,  dear  heart,  so  far  away, 
With  thy  laughter  light  and  laughter 

low, 
But   come   to   my   darkened    house,   I 

pray, 

And  tell  me  what  of  the  fields  to-day,  — 
Or  lilies,  or  snow  ?  or  lilies,  or  snow  ? 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


135 


Do  the   hulls   of   the   ripe   nuts   hang 

apart  ? 
Do  the  leaves  of  the  locust  drop  in  the 

well  ? 

Or  is  it  the  time  for  the  buds  to  start  ? 
O  gay  little  heart,  O  little  gay  heart, 
Come   hither   and   tell,    come  hither 

and  tell  ! 

The  day  of  my  hope  is  cold  and  dead, 
The    sun   is   down   and    the  light  is 

gone  ; 

Come  hither  thou  of  the  roses  red, 
Of  the  gay,  glad  heart,  and  the  golden 

head, 

And  tell  of  the  dawn,  of  the  dew  and 
the  dawn. 


WAIT. 

Go  not  far  in  the  land  of  light  ! 

A  little  while  by  the  golden  gate, 
Lest  that  I  lose  you  out  of  sight, 

Wait,  my  darling,  wait. 

Forever  now  from  your  happy  eyes 
Life's  scenic  picture  has  passed  away ; 

You  have  entered  into  realities, 
And  I  am  yet  at  flic  play  ! 

Yet  at  the  play  of  time  —  through  all, 
Thinking  of  you,  and  your  high  es- 
tate ; 

A  little  while,  and  the  curtain  will  fall  — 
Wait,  my  darling,  wait  ! 

Mine  is  a  dreary  part  to  do  — 

A    mask   of    mirth   on   a    mourning 

brow  ; 
The  chance  approval,  the  flower  or  two, 

Are  nothing  —  nothing  now  ! 

The  last  sad  act  is  drawing  on  ; 

A  little  while  by  the  golden  gate 
Of  the  holy  heaven  to  which  you  are 
gone, 

Wait,  my  darling,  wait. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE. 

I  DREAME-D  I  had  a  plot  of  ground, 
Once  on  a  time,  as  story  saith, 

All  closed  in  and  closed  round 

With  a  great  wall,  as  black  as  death. 


I  saw  a  hundred  mornings  break, 
So  far  a  little  dream  may  reach  ; 

And,  like  a  blush  on  some  fair  cheek, 
The  spring-time  mantling  over  each. 

Sweet  vines  o'erhung,  like  vernal  floods, 
The   wall,  I    thought,  and  though  I 
spied 

The  glorious  promise  of  the  buds, 
They  only  bloomed  the  other  side. 

Tears,     torments,    darkened     all     my 

ground, 
Yet    Heaven,   by  starts,    above    me 

gleamed  ; 

I  saw,  with  senses  strangely  bound, 
And  in  my  dreaming  knew  I  dreamed. 

Saying   to   my  heart,  these  things   are 
signs 

Sent  to  instruct  us  that  't  is  ours 
Duly  to  dress  and  keep  our  vines, 

Waiting  in  patience  for  the  flowers. 

But  when  the  angel,  feared  by  all, 
Across  my  hearth  his  shadow  spread, 

The  rose  that  climbed  my  garden  wall 
Had  bloomed,  the  other  side,  I  said. 


A    WINTRY    WASTE. 

THE  boughs   they   blow   across  the 

pane, 

And  my  heart  is  stirred  with  sudden  joy, 
For  I  think  't  is  the  shadow  of  my  boy, 

My  long  lost  boy,  come  home  again 
To  love,  and  to  live  with  me  ; 
And  I  put  the  work  from  off  my  knee, 
And  open  the  door  with  eager  haste  — 
There  lieth  the  cold,  wild  winter  waste, 
And  that  is  all  I  see  ! 

The   boughs  they  drag  against  the 

eaves, 

I  hear  them  early,  I  hear  them  late, 
And  I  think  't  is  the  latch  of  the  door- 
yard  gate, 

Or  a  step  on  the  frozen  leaves. 
And  I  say  to  my  heart,  he  is  slow,  he  is 

slow, 

And  I  call  him  loud  and  I  call  him  low, 
And  listen,  and  listen,  again  and  again, 
And  I  see  the  wild  shadows  go  ove"r  the 

pane. 

And  the  dead  leaves,  as  they  fall, 
I  hear,  and  that  is  all. 


136 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


But  fancy  only  half  deceives  — 
My  joys  are  counterfeits  of  joy, 
For   I  know  he   never  will  come,  my 
boy  ; 

And  I  see  through  my  make-believes, 
Only  the  wintry  waste  of  snow, 
Where  he  lieth   so  cold,  and  lieth  so 
low, 

And  so  far  from  the  light  and  me  : 
And  boughs  go  over  the  window-pane, 
And  drag  on  the  lonely  eaves,  in  vain,  — 

That  waste  is  all  I  see. 


THE   SHADOW. 

IN  vain  the  morning  trims  her  brows, 
A  shadow  all  the  sunshine  shrouds  ; 

The  moon  at  evening  vainly  ploughs 
Her  golden  furrows  in  the  clouds. 

In  vain  the  morn  her  splendor  hath  ; 

The    stars,    in   vain,    their    gracious 

cheer  ; 
There  moves  a  phantom  on  my  path, 

A  shapeless  phantom  that  I  fear. 

The  summer  wears  a  weary  srffcle, 
A  weary  hum  the  woodland  fills  ; 

The  .dusty  road  looks  tired  the  while 
It  climbs  along  the  sleepy  hills. 

Still  do  I  strive  to  build  my  song 
Against  this  grim  aggressive  gloom  ; 

0  hope,  I  say,  be  strong,  be  strong  ! 
Some  special,  saving  grace  must  come. 

1  sit  and  talk  of  sunnier  skies, 

Of    flowers    with    healing    in     their 

gleams, 

But  still  the  shapeless  shadow  flies 
Before  me  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

O  friends  of  mine,  who  sit  dismayed 
And  watch,  I  cry,  with  bated  breath  ; 

Yet  from  their  answering  shrink  afraid, 
Lest   that   they  name   the   name    of 
Death. 


HOW   PEACE    CAME. 

As  the  still  hours  toward  midnight  wore, 
She  called  to  me  —  her  voice  was  low 
And  soft  as  snow  that  falls  in  snow  — 

She  called  my  namerand  nothing  more. 


Sleeping,  I  felt  the  life-blood  stir  . 
With  piercing  anguish  all  my  heart  — 
I  felt  my  dreams  like  curtains  part, 

And  straightway  passed  through  them 
to  her. 

Yet,  'tvvixt  my  answer  and  her  call, 
My   thoughts   had    time   enough   to 

run 
Through  everything  that  I  had  done 

From  my  youth  upwaid.     One  and  all. 

The  harmful  words  which  I  had  said  — 
The   sinful  thoughts,  the    looks   un- 
true, 
Straight  into  fearful  phantoms  grew, 

And  ranged  themselves  about  her  bed. 

Weeping,    I    called    her    names    most 

sweet, 

But  still  the  phantoms,  evil-eyed, 
Between  us  stood,  and  though  I  died, 

I  could  not  even  touch  her  feet. 

My  soul  within  me  seemed  to  groan  — 
My    cheek    was     burning     up    with 

shame  — 
I  called  each  dark  deed  by  its  name, 

And  humbly  owned  it  for  my  own. 

My  tongue  was  loosed  —  my  heart  was 

free  — 

I  took  the  little  shining  head 
Betwixt   my   palms  —  the   phantoms 

fled. 

And  Heaven  was  moved,  and  came  to 
me. 


BE   STILL. 

COME,  bring   me  wild  pinks  from  the 
valleys, 

Ablaze  with  the  fire  o'  the  sun  — 
No  poor  little  pitiful  lilies 

That  speak  of  a  life  that  is  done  ! 

And  open  the  windows  to  lighten 
The  wearisome  chamber  of  pain  — 

The  eyes  of  my  darling  will  brighten 
To  see  the  green  hill-tops  again. 

Choose  tunes  with  a  lullaby  flowing, 
And   sing  through  the  'watches   you 
keep 

Be  soft  with  your  coming  and  going  — 
Be  soft !  she  is  falling  asleep. 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND 


Ah,  what  would  my  life  be  without  her  ! 

Pray  God  that  I  never  may  know  ! 
Dear  friends,  as  you  gather  about  her, 

Be  low  with  your  weeping  —  be  low. 

Be  low,  oh,  be  low  with  your  weeping  ! 

Your  sobs  would  be  sorrow  to  her  ; 
I  tremble  lest  while  she  is  sleeping 

A  rose  on  her  pillow  should  stir. 

Sing  slower,  sing  softer  and  slower  ! 

Her  sweet  cheek  is  losing  its  red  — 
Sing  low,  aye,  sing  lower  and  lower  — 

Be  still,  oh,  be  still  !     She  is  dead. 


VANISHED. 

OUT  of  the  wild  and  weary  night 
I  see  the  morning  softly  rise, 
But  oh,  my  lovely,  lovely  eyes  ! 

The  world  is  dim  without  your  light. 

I  see  the  young  buds  break  and  start 
To  fresher  life  when  frosts  are  o'er, 
But  oh,  my  rose-red  mouth  !  no  more 

Will  kiss  of  yours  delight  my  heart. 

The  worm  that  knows  nor  hope  nor 

trust 
Comes  forth  with  glorious  wings  dis- 

pread, 

But  oh,  my  little  golden  head  ! 
I  see  you  only  in  the  dust. 

I  hear  the  calling  of  the  lark, 
.-  Despite  the  cloud,  despite  the  rain  ; 
But   oh,   my  snow-white   hands  !    in 

vain 
I  search  to  find  you  through  the  dark. 

When  the  strong  whirlwind's  rage  is  o'er, 
A  whisper  bids  the  land  rejoice  ; 
But  oh,  my  gentle,  gentle  voice 

Your  music  gladdens  me  no  more. 

But  though  no  earthly  joy  dispel 

This  gloom   that   fills'  my  life  with 

woe, 
My  sweetest,  and  my  best !  I  know 

That  you  are  still  alive  and  well. 

Alive  and  well  :  oh,  blissful  thought ! 

In   some   sweet   clime,    I   know   not 
where  ; 

I  only  know  that  you  are  there, 
And  sickness,  pain,  and  death  are  not. 


AH,  she  was  not  an  angel  to  adore, 
She  was  not  perfect  —  she  was  only 

this  : 

A  woman  to  be  prattled  to,  to  kiss, 
To  praise  with  all  sweet  praises,  and  be- 
fore 
Whose  face  you  never  were  ashamed 

to  lay 
The  affections  of  your  pride  away. 

I  have  kept  Fancy  traveling  to  and  fro 
Full    many   an    hour,   to    find   what 

name  were  best, 
If  there  were  any  sweeter  than  the 

rest, 

That  I  might  always  call  my  darling  so  ; 
And  this  of  woman  seems  to  me  the 

sweetest, 

The   finest,   the  most   gracious,   the 
completest. 

The  dust  she  wore  about  her  I  agree 
Was  poor  and  sickly,  even  to  make 

you  sad, 
But  this  rough  world  we  live  in  never 

had 

An  ornament  more  excellent  than  she  ; 
The  earthly  dress  was  all  so  frail  that 

you 
Could  see  the  beauteous  spirit  shining 

through. 

Not  what  she  was,  but  what  she  was  to 
me 

Is  what  I  fain  would  tell  —  from  her 
was  drawn 

The  softness  of  the  eve,  the  light  of 

dawn  ; 
With  her  and  for  her  I  could  only  see" 

What  things  were  sweet  and  sensible 
and  pure  ; 

Now  all  is  dull,  slow  guessing,  noth- 
ing sure. 

My   sorrow   with   this   comfort    yet    is 

stilled  — 
I  do  not  dread  to   hear  the  winter 

stir 
His  wild  winds  up  —  I  have  no  fear 

for  her ; 
And  all  my  love  could  never  hope  to 

build 
A  place  so  sweet  beneath  heaven's 

arch  of  blue, 
As  she  by  death  has  been  elected  to. 


138 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


WAITING. 

AH  yes,  I  see  the  sunshine  play, 
I  hear  the  robin's  cheerful  call, 

But  I  am  thinking  of  the  day 
My  darling  left  me  —  that  is  all. 

I  do  not  grieve  for  her  —  ah  no  ! 

To  her  the  way  is  clear,  I  trust ; 
But  for  myself  I  grieve,  so  low, 

So  weak,  so  in,  and  of  the  dust. 

And  for  my  sadness  I  am  sad  — 
I  would  be  gay  if  so  I  might, 

But  she  was  all  the  joy  I  had  — 

My  life,  my  love,  my  heart's  delight, 

We  came  together  to  the  door 
Of  our  sweet  home  that  is  to  be, 

And  knowing,  she  went  in  before, 
To  put  on  marriage  robes  for  me. 

'T  is  weary  work  to  wait  so  long, 

But    true    love    knows    not    how    to 
doubt ; 

God's  wisdom  fashions  seeming  wrong, 
That  we  may  find  right  meanings  out. 


INTIMATIONS. 

THERE  is  hovering  about  me 

A  power  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 
That  I  know,  despite  my  sorrow, 

We  assuredly  shall  meet. 
I  know,  and  thus  the  darkness 

In  between  us  is  defied, 
That  death  is  but  a  shadow 

With  the  sunshine  either  side. 

The  world  is  very  weary, 

But  I  never  cease  to  know 
That  still  there  is  a  border-land 

Where  spirits  come  and  go  ; 
For  you  send  me  intimations 

In  the  morning's  gentle  beams, 
And  at  night  you  come  and  meet  me 

In  the  golden  gate  of  dreams. 

I  am  desolate  and  dreary, 

But  mortal  pain  and  doubt 
Are  blessings,  and  our  part  it  is 

To  find  their  meanings  out : 
To  find  their  blessed  meanings, 

And  to  wait  in  hope  and  trust, 
Till  our  gracious  Lord  and  Master 

Shall  redeem  us  from  the  dust. 


THE   GREAT   QUESTION. 

"  How  are  the  dead  raised  up,  and  with  what 
body  do  they  come  ?  :' 

THE  waves,  they  are  wildly  heaving, 

And  bearing  me  out  from  the  shore, 
And  I  know  of  the  things  I  am  leaving, 

But  not  of  the  things  before. 
O  Lord  of  love,  whom  the  shape  of  a 
dove 

Came  down  and  hovered  o'er, 
Descend  to-night  with  heavenly  light, 

And  show  me  the  farther  shore. 

There  is  midnight  darkness  o'er  me, 

And  't  is  light,  more  light,  I  crave ; 
The  billows  behind  and  before  me 

Are  gaping,  each  with  a  grave  : 
Pescend  to-night,  O  Lord  of  might, 

Who  died  our  souls  to  save  ; 
Descend  to-night,  my  Lord,  my  Light, 

And  walk  with  me  on  the  wave  ! 

My  heart  is  heavy  to  breaking 

Because  of  the  mourners'  sighs, 
For  they  cannot  see  the  awak'ning, 

Nor  the  body  with  which  we  arise. 
Thou,  who  for  sake  of  men  didst  break 

The  awful  seal  of  the  tomb  — 
Show  them  the  way  into  life,  I  pray, 

And  the  body  with  which  we  come  ! 

Comfort  their  pain  and  pining 

For  the  nearly  wasted  sands, 
With  the  many  mansions  shining 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands  : 
And  help  them  by  faith  to  see  through 
death 

To  that  brighter  and  better  shore, 
Where  they  never  shall  weep  who  are 
fallen  asleep 

And  never  be  sick  any  more. 


WHAT  comfort,   when  with  clouds  of 

'     woe 
The    heart    is    burdened,  and    must 

weep, 

To  feel  that  pain  must  end,  —  to  know, 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

When  in  the  mid-day  march  we  meet 
The    outstretched    shadows    of    the 
night, 

The  promise,  how  divinely  sweet, 
"  At  even-time  it  shall  be  light." 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


THANKSGIVING. 

FOR  the  sharp  conflicts  I  have  had  with 

sin, 

Wherein, 

I  have  been  wedged  and  pressed 
Nigh  unto  death,  I  thank  thee,  with  the 

.     rest 
Of  my  befallings,  Lord,  of  brighter  guise, 

And  named  by  mortals,  good, 
Which  to  my  hungry  heart  have  given 

food, 
Or  costly  entertainment  to  my  eyes. 

For  I  can  only  see, 
With  spirit  truly  reconciled  to  thee, 
In  the   sad  evils  with  our  lives  that 
blend, 

A  means,  and  not  an  end  : 

Since  thou  wert  free 
To   do   thy  will  —  knewest  the   bitter 

worth 
Of  sin,  and  all  its  possibility, 

Ere  that,  by  thy  decree, 
The  ancient  silence  of  eternity 
Was  broken  by  the  music  of  man's  birth. 

Therefore  I  lay  my  brows 
Discrowned  of  youth,   within  thy  gra- 
cious hands, 
Or  rise  while  daybreak  dew  is  on  the 

boughs 
To  strew  thy  road  with  sweets,  for  thy 

commands 

Do  make  the  current  of  my  life  to  run 
Through  lost  and  cavernous  ways, 
Bordered  with  cloudy  days, 
In  its  slow  working  out  into  the  sun. 

Hills,  clap  your  hands,  and  all  ye  mount- 
ains, shout : 

Hie,  fainting  hart,  to  where  the  waters 
flow; 


Children  of  men,  put  off  your  fear  and 

doubt ; 
The  Lord  who  chasteneth,  loveth  you, 

for,  lo  ! 
The  wild  herb's  wounded  stalk  He  cares 

about, 
And  shields  the  ravens  when  the  rough 

winds  blow ; 
He  sendeth  down  the  drop  of  shining 

dew 
To  light  the  daisy  from  her  house 

of  death, 

And  shall  He,  then,  forget  the  like  of  you, 
O  ye,  of  little  faith  ! 

He  speaketh  to  the  willing  soul  and 

heart 
By  dreams,  and  in  the  visions  of  the 

night, 
And  happy  is  the  man  who,  for  his  part, 

Rejoiceth  in  the  light 
Of  all  his  revelations,  whether  found 
In  the  old  books,  so  sacredly  upbound, 
And    clasped   with    golden   clasps,  or 

whether  writ 
Through    later   instillations    of    his 

power, 

Where  he  that  runneth  still  perceiveth  it 
Illuminating  every  humble  flower 
That  springeth  from  the  ground. 

His  testimony  all  the  time  is  sure  ; 
The  smallest  star  that  keepeth  in  the 

night 

His  silver  candle  bright, 
And  every  deed  of  good  that  anywhere 
Maketh  the  hands  of  holy  women  white  ; 
All   sweet   religious   work,   all   earnest 

prayer, 

Of  uttered,  or  unutterable  speech  ; 
Whatever  things  are  peaceable  and  pure, 

Whatever  things  are  right, 
These  are   his  witnesses,  aye,  all  and 

each! 


140 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Thrice  happy  is  the  man  who  doth  obey 
The  Lord  of  love,  through  love ;  who 

fears  to  break 

The  righteous  law  for  th'  law's  right- 
eous sake  ; 

And  who,  by  daily  use  of  blessings,  gives 
Thanks  for  the  daily  blessings  he  re- 
ceives ; 

His  spirit  grown  so  reverent,  it  dares 
Cast  the  poor  shows  of  reverence  away, 

Believing  they 

More  glorify  the  Giver,  who  partake 
Of  his  good  gifts,  than  they  who  fast  and 

make 
Burnt  offerings  and  Pharisaic  prayers. 

The  wintry  snows  that  blind 

The  air,  and  blight  what  things  were 
glorified 

By  summer's  reign,  we  do  not  think  un- 
kind 

When  that  we  see  them  changed,  afar 
and  wide, 

To  rain,  that,  fretting  in  the  rose's  face, 
Brings  out  a  softer  grace, 

And  makes  the  troops  of  rustic  daffodils 

Shake  out  their  yellow  skirts  along  the 
hills, 

And  all  the  valleys  blush  from  side  to 
side. 

And  as  we  climb  the  stair, 
Of  rough  and  ugly  fortune,  by  the  props 
Of  faith   and    charity,    and   hope   and 

prayer, 

To  the  serene  and  beauteous  mountain- 
tops 

Of  our  best  human  possibility, 
Where  haunts  the  spirit  of  eternity, 
The  world  below  looks  fair,  — 
Its  seeming  inequalities  subdued, 
And  level,  all,  to  purposes  of  good. 

I  thank  thee,  gracious  Lord, 
For  the  divine  award 
Of  strength  that  helps  me  up  the  heavy 

heights 
Of  mortal  sorrow,  where,  through  tears 

forlorn, 
My  eyes  get  glimpses  of  the  authentic 

lights 
Of  love's  eternal  morn. 

For  thereby  do  I  trust 
That  our  afflictions  spring  not  from  the 

dust, 

And  that  they  are  not  sent 
In  arbitrary  chastisement, 


Nor  as  avengers  to  put  out  the  light 
And  let  our  souls  loose  in  some  damned 

night 
That  holds  the  balance  of  thy  glory, 

just ; 
But  rather,   that   as   lessons   they  are 

meant, 

And  as  the  fire  tempers  the  iron,  so 
Are  we  refined  by  woe. 

I  thank  thee  for  my  common  blessings, 

still 

Rained  through  thy  will 
Upon  my  head  ;  the  air 

That  knows  so  many  tunes  which  grief 
beguile, 

Breathing   its   light  love   to  me  every- 
where, 

And  that  will  still  be  kissing  all  the 
while, 

I  thank  thee  that  my  childhood's  van- 
ished days 
Were  cast  in  rural  ways, 

Where   I  beheld,   with  gladness    ever 

new, 
That  sort  of  vagrant  dew 

Which  lodges  in  the  beggarly  tents  of 
such 

Vile  weeds  as  virtuous  plants  disdain  to 
touch, 

And  with    rough-bearded    burs,   night 
after  night, 

Upgathered  by  the  morning,  tender  and 

true, 
Into  her  clear,  chaste  light. 

Such  ways  I  learned  to  know 

That  free  will  cannot  go 
Outside  of  mercy  ;  learned  to  bless  his 

name 

Whose  revelations,  ever  thus  renewed 
Along  the  varied  year,  in  field  and  wood, 

His  loving  care  proclaim. 

I  thank  thee  that  the  grass  and  the  red 

rose 

Do  what  they  can  to  tell 
How  spirit  through  all  forms  of  matter 

flows  ; 

For  every  thistle  by  the  common  way 
Wearing  its  homely  beauty,  —  for  each 

spring 
That  sweet  and  homeless,  runneth  where 

it  will,  — 

For  night  and  day, 

For  the  alternate  seasons,  —  everything 
Pertaining  to  life's  marvelous  miracle. 


KELTCIOUS  POEMS  AND  ffVMATS. 


141 


Even  for  the  lowly  flower 
That,  living,  dwarfed  and  bent 
Under   some   beetling   rock,  in   gloom 

profound, 
Far  from  her  pretty  sisters  of  the  ground, 

And  shut  from  sun  and  shower, 
Seemeth  endowed  with  human  discon- 
tent. 

Ah  !  what  a  tender  hold 

She  taketh  of  us  in  our  own  despite,  — 
A  sadly-solemn  creature, 
Crooked,  despoiled  of  nature, 

Leaning  from  out  the  shadows,  dull  and 
cold, 

To  lay  her  little  white  face  in  the  light. 

The  chopper  going  by  her  rude  abode, 
Thinks  of  his  own   rough  hut,  his  old 

wife's  smile, 

And  of  the  bare  young  feet 
That  run  through  th'  frost  to  meet 
His    coming,   and    forgets    the    weary 

load 

Of  sticks  that  bends  his  shoulders  down 
the  while. 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  Nature  is  so 

wise, 

So  capable  of  painting  in  men's  eyes 
Pictures  whose  airy  hues 
Do  blend  and  interfuse 
With  all   the   darkness   that   about   us 

lies,  — 

That  clearly  in  our  hearts 
Her  law  she  writes, 
Reserving    cunning    past    our    mortal 

arts, 

Whereby  she  is  avenged  for  all   her 
slights. 

And  I  would  make  thanksgiving 
For  the  sweet,  double  living, 
That  gives   the    pleasures    that    have 

passed  away, 

The  sweetness  and  the  sunshine  of  to- 
day. 

I   see   the  furrows   ploughed   and  gee 

them  planted, 

See  the  young  cornstalks  rising  green 
and  fair  ; 

Mute  things  are  friendly,  and. I  am  ac- 
quainted 

With  all  the  luminous  creatures  of 
the  air ; 

And  with  the  cunning  workers  of  the 
ground 


That   have    their  trades  born    wi.th 

them,  and  with  all 
The  insects,  large  and  small, 
That  fill  the  summer  with  a  wave  of 

sound. 

I  watch  the  wood-bird  line 
Her   pretty  nest,  with  eyes  that  never 

tire, 
And   watch   the    sunbeams    trail    their 

wisps  of  fire 

Along  the  bloomless  bushes,  till  they 
shine. 

The  violet,  gathering  up  her  tender  blue 
From  th'  dull  ground,  is  a  good  sight 

to  see  ; 

And  it  delighteth  me 
To  have  the  mushroom  push  his  round 

head  through 

The  dry  and  brittle  stubble,  as  I  pass, 
His  smooth  and  shining  coat,  half  rose 

half  fawn, 
But  just  put  on  ; 
And  to  have  April  slip  her  showery 

grass 

Under  my  feet,  as  she  was  used  to  do, 
In  the  dear  spring-times  gone. 

I  make  the  brook,  my  Nile, 
And  hour  by  hour  beguile, 
Tracking  its  devious  course 
Through  briery  banks  to  its  mysterious 

source, 
That  T  discover,  always,  at  my  will,  — 

A  little  silver  star, 
Under  the  shaggy  forehead  of  some 

hill, 
From  traveled  ways  afar. 

Forgetting  wind  and  flood, 
I  build  my  house  of  unsubstantial  sand, 
Shaping  the  roof  upon  my  double  hand, 
And  setting  up  the  dry  and  sliding  grains, 
With  infinite  pains, 
In  the  similitude 
Of  beam  and  rafter,  —  then 
Where  to  the  ground  the  dock  its  broad 

leaf  crooks, 
I  hunt  long  whiles  to  find  the  little 

men 
That  I  have  read  of  in  my  story-books. 

Often,  in  lawless  wise. 
Some  obvious  work  of  duty  I  delay, 

Taking  my  fill 

Of  an  uneasy  liberty,  and  still 

Close  shutting  up  my  eyes, 
As  though  it  were  not  given  me  to  see 


142 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY, 


The  avenging  ghost  of  opportunity 
Thus  slighted,  far  away. 

I  linger,  when  I  know 
That  I  should  forward  go  ; 
Now,  haply  for  the  katydid's  wild  shrill, 

Now  listening  to  the  low, 
Dull   noise   of  mill-wheels  —  counting, 

now,  the  row 

Of  clouds  about  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill. 

My  heart  anew  rejoices 
In  th'  old  familiar  voices 
That  come  back  to  me  like  a  lullaby ; 

Now  't  is  the  church-bell's  call, 
And  now  a  teamster's  whistle,  —  now, 

perhaps, 

The  silvery  lapse 

Of  waters  in  among  the  reeds  that  meet ; 
And  now,  down-dropping  to  a  whis- 

pery  fall, 
Some    milkmaid,   chiding   with    love's 

privilege, 

Through  the  green  wall 

Of  the  dividing  hedge, 

And  the  so  sadly  eloquent  reply 

Of  the  belated  cow-boy,  low  and  sweet. 

I  see,  as  in  a  dream, 

The  farmer  plodding  home  behind 

his  team, 

With  all  the  tired  shadows  following, 
And  see  him  standing  in  his  threshing- 
floor, 

The  hungry  cattle  gathered  in  a  ring 
About  the  great  barn-door. 

I  see  him  in  the  sowing, 
And  see  him  in  the  mowing, 
The   air   about   him   thick  with    gray- 
winged  moths  ; 
The  day's  work  nearly  over, 
And    the    long    meadow   ridged    with 

double  swaths 
Of  sunset-light  and  clover. 

When  falls  the  time  of  solemn  Sabbath 

rest, 

In  all  he  has  of  best 
I  see  him  going  (for  he  never  fails) 
To  church,  in  either  equitable  hand 
A  shining  little  one,  and  all  his  band 
Trooping    about    him   like    a   flock   of 

quails. 
With  necks  bowed  low,  and  hid  to  half 

their  length 
Under  the  jutting  load  of  new-made  hay, 


I  see  the  oxen  give  their  liberal  strength 
Day  after  day, 
And  see  the  mower  stay 
His  scythe,  and  leave  a  patch  of  grass 

to  spread 

Its  shelter  round  the  bed 
Of  the  poor  frighted  ground-bird  in  his 
way. 

I  see  the  joyous  vine, 
And  see  the  wheat  set  up  its  rustling 

spears, 
And   see   the  sun  with  golden   fingers 

sign 
The  promise  of  full  ears. 

I  see  the  slender  moon 
Time  after  time  grow  old  and  round  in 

th'  face, 
And  see  the  autumn  take  the  summer's 

place, 

And  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
In  their  thick,  bitter  hulls  of  green  and 

brown, 
To  make  the  periods  of  the  school-boy's 

tune  ; 
I  see  the  apples,  with  their  russet  cheeks 

Shaming  the  wealth  of  June  ; 
And  see  the  bean-pods,  gay  with  pur- 
ple freaks, 
And  all  the  hills  with  yellow  leaves  o'er- 

blown, 
As   through   the   fading  woods  I  walk 

alone, 

And  hear  the  wind  o'erhead 
Touching  the  joyless  boughs  and  mak- 
ing moan, 

Like  some  old  crone, 
Who  on  her  withered  fingers  counts  her 
dead. 

I  hear  the  beetle's   hum,  and  see   the 

gnats 

Sagging  along  the  air  in  strings  of  jet, 
And  from  their  stubs  I  see  the  weak- 
eyed  bats 
Flying  an  hour  before  the  sun  is  set. 

Picture  on  picture  crowds, 
And  by  the  gray  and  priestlike  silence 

led, 
Comes  the  first  star  through  evening's 

steely  gates 

And  chides  the  clay  to  bed 
Within  the  ruddy  curtains  of  the  clouds  ; 
So  gently  com'st  thou,  Death, 
To  him  who  waits, 
In  the  assurance  of  our  blessed  faith, 
To  be  acquainted  with  thy  quiet  arms, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


His  good  deeds,  great  and  small, 
Builded  about  him  like  a  silver  wall, 
And  bearing  back  the  deluge  of  alarms. 

The  mother  doth  not  tenderer  appear 
When,  from  her  heart  her  tired  darling 

laid, 

She  trims  his  cradle  all  about  with  shade, 
And  will  not  kiss   his   sleepy  eyes  for 

fear. 

I  see   the  windows   of  the  homestead 

bright 

With  the  warm  evening  light, 
And  by  the  winter  fire 
I  see  the  gray-haired  sire 
Serenely  sitting, 
Forgetful    of    the    work-day    toil    and 

care, 

The  old  wife  by  his  elbow,  at  her  knit- 
ting ; 
The  cricket  on  the  hearth-stone  singing 

shrill, 
And  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  house  at 

will 

Climbing  the  good  man's  chair, 
A  furtive  glimpse  to  catch 
Of  her  fair  face  in  his  round  silver  watch, 
That   she   in  her  high   privilege   must 

wear, 

And  listen  to  the  music  that  is  in  it, 
Though  only  for  a  minute. 

I  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  every  saddest 

cross  ; 

Gain  comes  to  us  through  loss, 
The  while  we  go, 
Blind  travelers  holding  by  the  wall  of 

time, 

And  seeking  out  through  woe 
The  things  that  are  eternal  and  sublime. 

Ah  !  sad  are  they  of  whom  no  poet 
writes 

Nor  ever  any  story-teller  hears,  — 

The   childless   mothers,  who   on   lone- 
some nights 

Sit  by  their  fires  and  weep,  having  the 
chores 

Done  for  the  day,  and  time  enough  to 

see 
All  the  wide  floors 

Swept   clean    of   playthings  ;    they,   as 

needs  must  be, 
Have  time  enough  for  tears. 

But  there  are  griefs  more  sad 

Than  ever  any  childless  mother  had,  — 


You  know  them,  who  do  smother  Nat- 
ure's cries 
Under  poor  masks 
Of  smiling,  slow  despair,  — 

Who   put  your  white   and    unadorning 
hair 

Out  of  your  way,  and  keep  at  homely 
tasks, 

Unblest  with  any  praises  of  men's  eyes, 

Till  Death  comes  to  you  with  his  pit- 
eous care, 

And  to  unmarriageable  beds  you  go, 

Saying,  "  It  is  not  much  ;  't  is  well,  if 

so 
We  only  be  made  fair 

And  looks  of  love   await  us  when  we 
rise." 

My  cross  is  not  as  hard  as  theirs  to 
bear, 

And   yet   alike   to   me   are   storms,    or 

calms  ; 

My  life's  young  joy, 
The  brown-cheeked  farmer-boy, 

Who  led  the  daisies  with  him  like  his 
lambs,  — 

Carved   his  sweet  picture  on  my  milk- 
ing-pail, 

And   cut  my  name  upon  his  threshing- 
flail, 

One  day  stopped  singing  at  his  plough  ; 
alas  ! 

Before  that  summer-time  was  gone,  the 
grass 

Had  choked  the  path  which  to  the  sheep- 
field  led, 

Where  I  had  watched  him  tread 
So  oft  on  evening's  trail, — 

A   shining   oat-sheaf   balanced   on    his 

head, 
And  nodding  to  the  gale. 

Rough  wintry  weather  came,  and  when 

it  sped, 

The  emerald  wave 
Swelling   above   my  little   sweetheart's 

grave, 
With  such   bright,  bubbly  flowers  was 

set  about, 

I  thought  he  blew  them  out, 
And  so  took  comfort  that  he  was  not 

dead. 

For  I  was  of  a  rude  and  ignorant  crew, 
And  hence  believed  whatever  things  I 

saw 

Were  the  expression  of  a  hidden  law  ; 
And,  with  a  wisdom  wiser  than  I  knew, 


144 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Evoked   the   simple   meanings  out 

of  things 
By  childlike  questionings. 

And   he  they  named  with  shudderings 

of  fear 
Had   never,   in    his   life,   been   half  so 

near 
As  when  I  sat  all  day  with  cheeks  un- 

kissed, 

And  listened  to  the  whisper,  very  low, 
That  said  our  love  above  death's  wave 

of  woe 
Was  joined  together  like  the  seamless 

mist. 

God's  yea  and  nay 
Are  not  so  far  away, 
I  said,  but   I  can   hear   them    when   I 

please  ; 

Nor  could  I  understand 
Their  doubting  faith,  who  only  touch  his 

hand 
Across  the  blind,  bewildering  centuries. 

And  often  yet,  upon  the  shining  track 
Of  the  old  faith,  come  back 

My  childish   fancies,  never   quite   sub- 
dued ; 

And  when  the  sunset   shuts  up  in  the 
wood 

The  whispery  sweetness  of  uncertainty, 

And  Night,  with  misty  locks  that  loosely 
drop 

About  his  ears,  brings  rest,  a  welcome 
boon, 

Playing   his   pipe   with   many  a   starry 
stop 

That   makes   a  golden   snarling   in  his 
tune  ; 

I  see  my  little  lad 

Under  the  leafy  shelter  of  the  boughs, 
Driving  his  noiseless,  visionary  cows, 
Clad  in  a  beauty  I  alone  can  see  : 

Laugh,  you,  who  never  had 
Your  dead  come  back,  but  do  not  take 

from  me 
The   harmless   comfort   of   my   foolish 

dream, 

That  these,  our  mortal  eyes, 
Which  outwardly  reflect  the  earth  and 

skies 
Do  introvert  upon  eternity  : 

And  that  the  shapes  you  deem 
Imaginations,  just  as  clearly  fall ; 
Each  from  its  own  divine  original, 


And   through  some  subtle  element  of 

light. 

Upon  the  inward,  spiritual  eye, 
As  do   the   things  which   round   about 

them  lie, 
Gross   and   material,   on    the   external 

sight. 


HOPE  in  our  hearts  doth  only  stay 

Like  a  traveler  at  an  inn, 
Who  riseth  up  at  the  break  of  day 

His  journey  to  begin. 

Faith,  when   her  soul   has  known   the 
blight 

Of  noisy  doubts  and  fears, 
Goes  thenceforward  clad  in  the  light 

Of  the  still  eternal  years. 

Truth  is  truth  :  no  more  in  the  prayers 

Of  the  righteous  Pharisee  ; 
No  less  in  the  humblest  sinner  that  wears 

This  poor  mortality. 

But  Love  is  greatest  of  all  :  no  loss 
Can  shadow  its  face  with  gloom,  — 

As  glorious  hanging  on  the  cross 
As  breaking  out  of  the  tomb. 


MORNING. 

WAKE,  Dillie,  my  darling,  and  kiss  me, 

The  daybreak  is  nigh,  — 
I  can  see/through  the  half-open  curtain, 

A  strip  of  blue  sky. 

Yon  lake,  in  her  valley-bed  lying, 

Looks  fair  as  a  bride, 
And  pushes,  to  greet  the  sun's  coming, 

The  mist  sheets  aside 

The  birds,  to  the  wood-temple  flying, 

Their  matins  to  chant, 
Are  chirping  their  love  to  each  other, 

With  wings  dropt  aslant. 

Not  a  tree,  that  the  morning's  bright 
edges 

With  silver  illumes, 
But  trembles  and  stirs  with  its  pleasure 

Through  all  its  green  plumes. 

Wake,  Dillie,  and  join  in  the  praises 
All  nature  doth  give  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


145 


Clap  hands,  and  rejoice  in  the   good- 
ness 
That  leaves  you  to  live. 

For  what  is  the  world  in  her  glory 

To  that  which  thou  art  ? 
Thank  God  for  the  soul  that  is  in  you,  — 

Thank  God  for  your  heart  ! 

The  world  that  had  never  a  lover 

Her  bright  face  to  kiss,  — 
With  her  splendors  of  stars  and  of  noon- 
tides 

How  poor  is  her  bliss  ! 

Wake,  Dillie,  —  the  white  vest  of  morn- 
ing 

With  crimson  is  laced  ; 
And   why    should    delights    of    God's 

giving 
Be  running  to  waste  ! 

Full  measures,  pressed  down,  are  await- 
ing 

Our  provident  use ; 
And  is  there  no  sin  in  neglecting 

As  well  as  abuse  ? 

The  cornstalk  exults  in  its  tassel, 

The  flint  in  its  spark,  — 
And  shall  the  seed  planted  within  me 

Rot  out  in  the  dark  ? 

Shall  I  be  ashamed  to  give  culture 

To  what  God  has  sown  ? 
When  nature  asks  bread,  shall  I  offer 

A  serpent,  or  stone  ? 

For  could  I  out- weary  its  yearnings 

By  fasting,  or  pain,  — 
Would  life  have  a  better  fulfillment, 

Or  death  have  a  gain  ? 

Nay,  God  will  not  leave  us  unanswered 

In  any  true  need  ; 
His  will  maybe  writ  in  an  instinct, 

As  well  as  a  creed. 

And,  Dillie,  my  darling,  believe  me, 

That  life  is  the  best, 
That,  loving  here,  truly  and  sweetly, 

With  Him  leaves  the  rest. 

Its  head  to  the  sweep  of  the  whirlwind 

The  wise  willow  suits, — 
While  the  oak,  that  's  too  stubborn  for 
bending, 

Comes  up  by  the  roots. 


Such  lessons,  each  day,  round  about u% 
Our  good  Mother  writes,  — 

To  show  us  that  Nature,  in  some  way, 
Avenges  her  slights. 


ONE    DUST. 

THOU,  under  Satan's  fierce  control, 
Shall  Heaven  its  final  rest  bestow  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  soul 

That   might   have    fallen    as    darkly 
low. 

I  judge  thee  not,  what  depths  of  ill 
Soe'er  thy  feet  have  found,  or  trod  ; 

I  know  a  spirit  and  a  will 

As  weak,  but  for  the  grace  of  God. 

Shalt  thou  with  full-day  laborers  stand, 
Who  hardly  canst  have  pruned  one 
vine  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  hand 
With  an  infirmity  like  thine. 

Shalt  thou  who  hast  with  scoffers  part, 
E'er  wear  the   crown  the  Christian 
wears  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  know  a  heart 
As  flinty,  but  for  tears  and  prayers. 

Have  mercy,  O  thou  Crucified  ! 

For  even  while  I  name  thy  name, 
I  know  a  tongue  that  might  have  lied 

Like  Peter's,   and  am    bowed    with 
shame. 

Fighters  of  good  rights,  —  just,  unjust, — 
The  weak  who   faint,  the    frail  who 

fall,  — 

Of  one  blood,  of  the  self-same  dust, 
Thou,  God  of  love,  hast  made  them 
all. 


SIGNS   OF  GRACE. 

COME  thou,  my  heavy  soul,  and  lay 

Thy  sorrows  all  aside, 
And  let  us  see,  if  so  we  may, 

How  God  is  glorified. 

Forget  the  storms  that  darkly  beat, 
Forget  the  woe  and  crime, 

And  tie  of  consolations  sweet 
A  posie  for  the  time. 


146 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


Some  blessed  token  everywhere 

Doth  grace  to  men  allow  ; 
The  daisy  sets  her  silver  share 

Beside  the  rustic's  plough. 

The  wintry  wind  that  naked  strips 

The  bushes,  stoopeth  low, 
And     round    their    rugged     arms    en 
wraps 

The  fleeces  of  the  snow. 

The  blackbird,  idly  whistling  till 

The  storm  begins  to  pour, 
Finds  ever  with  his  golden  bill 

A  hospitable  door. 

From  love,  and  love's  protecting  power 

We  cannot  go  apart  ; 
The  shadows  round  the  fainting  flower 

Rebuke  the  drooping  heart. 

Our  strivings  are  not  reckoned  less, 

Although  we  fail  to  win ; 
The  lily  wears  a  royal  dress, 

And  yet  she  doth  not  spin. 

So,  soul,  forget  thy  evil  days, 

Thy  sorrow  lay  aside, 
And  strive  to  see  in  all  his  ways 

How  God  is  glorified. 


JANUARY. 

THE  year  has  lost  its  leaves  again, 
The  world  looks  old  and  grim  ; 

God  folds  his  robe  of  glory  thus, 
That  we  may  see  but  Him. 

And  all  his  stormy  messengers, 
That  come  with  whirlwind  breath, 

Beat  out  our  chaff  of  vanity, 
And  leave  the  grains  of  faith. 

We  will  not  feel,  while  summer  waits 

Her  rich  delights  to  share, 
What  sinners,  miserably  bad,  — 

How  weak  and  poor  we  are. 

We   tread   through  fields   of  speckled 
flowers 

As  if  we  did  not  know 
Our  Father  made  them  beautiful, 

Because  He  loves  us  so. 

We  hold  his  splendors  in  our  hands 
As  if  we  held  the  dust, 


And  deal  his  judgment,  as  if  man 
Than  God  could  be  more  just. 

We  seek,  in  prayers  and  penances, 

To  do  the  martyr's  part, 
Remembering  not,  the  promises 

Are  to  the  pure  in  heart. 

From  evil  and  forbidden  things, 
Some  good  we  think  to  win, 

And  to  the  last  analysis 
Experiment  with  sin. 

We  seek  no  oil  in  summer  time 

Our  winter  lamp  to  trim, 
But  strive  to  bring  God  do-\vn  to  us, 

More  than  to  rise  to  Him. 

And  when  that  He  is  nearest,  most 
Our  weak  complaints  we  raise, 

Lacking  the  wisdom  to  perceive 
The  mystery  of  his  ways. 

For,  when  drawn  closest  to  himself, 
Then  least  his  love  we  mark  ; 

T^ie  very  wings  that  shelter  us 
From  peril,  make  it  dark. 

Sometimes   He  takes  his  hands  from 
us, 

When  storms  the  loudest  blow, 
That  we  may  learn  how  weak,  alone,— 

How  strong  in  Him,  we  grow. 

Through   the   cross    iron    of    our   free 
will 

And  fate,  we  plead  for  light, 
As  if  God  gave  us  not  enough 

To  do  our  work  aright. 

We  will  not  see,  but  madly  take 
The  wrong  and  crooked  path, 

And  in  our  own  hearts  light  the  fires 
Of  a  consuming  wrath. 

The  fashion  of  his  Providence 

Our  way  is  so  above, 
We   serve    Him    most   who    take   the 
most 

Of  hfs  exhaustless  love. 

We  serve  Him  in  the  good  we  do, 

The  blessings  we  embrace, 
Not  lighting  farthing  candles  for 

The  palace  of  his  grace. 

He  has  no  need  of  our  poor  aid 
His  purpose  to  pursue ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


147 


'T  is  for  our  pleasure,  not  for  his, 
That  we  his  work  must  do. 

Then  blow,  O  wild  winds,  as  ye  list, 
And  let  the  world  look  grim, — 

God  folds  his  robe  of  glory  thus 
That  we  may  see  but  Him. 


ALONE. 

WHAT  shall  I  do  when  I  stand  in  my 

place, 
Unclothed  of  this  garment  of  cloud 

and  dust, 
Unclothed  of  this  garment  of  selfish 

lust, 
With  my  Maker,  face  to  face  ? 

What  shall  I  say  for  my  worldly  pride  ? 
What  for  the  things  I  have  done  and 

not  clone  ? 
There  will  be  no  cloud  then  over  the 

sun, 
And  no  grave  wherein  to  hide. 

No    time    for    waiting,    no    time    for 


prayer, 
friend  t 


No  friend  that  with  me  my  life-path 

trod 
To  help  me,  —  only  my  soul  and  my 

God, 
And  all  my  sins  laid  bare. 

No   dear   human    pity,   no    low   loving 

speech, 
About  me  that  terrible  day  shall  there 

be, 

Remitted  back  into  myself,  I  shall  see 
All  sweetest  things  out  of  reach. 

But  why  should  I  tremble   before  th' 

unknown, 
And  put  off  me  blushing  and  shame  ? 

Now,  —  to-day  ! 
The  friend  close  beside  me  seems  far, 

far  away, 
And  I  stand  at  God's  judgment  alone  ! 


A    PRAYER. 

I  HAVE  been  little  used  to  frame 

Wishes  to  speech  and  call  it  prayer ; 

To-day,  my  Father,  in  thy  name, 
I  ask  to  have  my  soul  stript  bare 


Of  all  its  vain  pretense,  —  to  see 
Myself,  as  I  am  seen  by  thee. 

I  want  to  know  how  much  the  pain 

And  passion  here,  its  powers  abate ; 
To  take  its  thoughts,  a  tangled  skein, 
And  stretch  them  out  all  smooth  and 

straight ; 
To  track  its  wavering  course   through 

sin 
And  sorrow,  to  its  origin. 

I  want  to  know  if  in  the  night 
Of  evil  grace  doth  so  abound, 

That  from  its  darkness  we  draw  light, 
As     flowers     do     beauty    from     the 
ground ; 

Or,  if  the  sins  of  time  shall  be 

The  shadows  of  eternity. 

I  want,  though  only  for  an  hour. 
To  be  myself,  —  to  get  more  near 

The  wondrous  mystery  and  power 
Of  love,  whose  echoes  floating  here, 

Between  us  and  the  waiting  grave, 

Make  all  of  light,  of  heaven,  we  have. 


COUNSEL. 

THOUGH  sin  hath  marked  thy  brother's 
brow, 

Love  him  in  sin's  despite, 
But  for  his  darkness,  haply  thou 

Hadst  never  known  the  light. 

Be  thou  an  angel  to  his  life, 

And  not  a  demon  grim,  — 
Since  with  himself  he  is  at  strife, 

Oh  be  at  peace  with  him. 

Speak  gently  of  his  evil  ways 

And  all  his  pleas  allow, 
For  since  he  knows  not  why  he  strays 

From  virtue,  how  shouldst  thou  ? 

Love    him,    though    all    thy    love    he 
slights, 

For  ah,  thou  canst  not  say 
But  that  his  prayerless  days  and  nights 

Have  taught  thee  how  to  pray. 

Outside  themselves  all  thing  have  laws. 

The  atom  and  the  sun,  — 
Thou  art  thyself,  perhaps,  the  cause 

Of  sins  which  he  has  done. 


148 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALTCE   CARY. 


If  guiltless  thou,  why  surely  then 
Thy  place  is  by  his  side,  — 

It  was  for  sinners,  not  just  men, 
That  Christ  the  Saviour  died. 


SUPPLICATION. 

DEAR  gracious  Lord,  if  that  thy  pain 
Doth  make  me  well,  if  I  have  strayed 
Past  mercy,  let  my  hands  be  laid 

One  in  the  other  ;  not  in  vain 

Would   I   be  dressed,  Lord,  in   the 

beauteous  clay 
Which  thou  didst  put  away. 

But  if  thou  yet  canst  find  in  me 

A  vine,  though  trailing  on  the  ground, 
That  might  be  straightened  up,  and 

bound 
To  any  good,  so  let  it  be  ; 

And,  haply  at  the  last,  some  tendril- 
ring 
Unto  thy  hand  shall  cling. 

I  have  been  too  much  used,  I  know, 

To  tell  my  needs  in  fretful  words. 

The  clamoring  of  the  silly  birds, 
Impatient  for  their  wings  to  grow, 

Has  thy  forgiveness ;   O  my  blessed 
Lord, 

The  like  to  me  accord. 

Of  grace,  as  much  as  will  complete 

Thy  will  in  me,  I  pray  thee  for; 

Even  as  a  rose  shut  in  a  drawer, 
That  maketh  all  about  it  sweet, 

I  would  be,   rather  than  the  cedar, 
fine, 

Help  me,  thou  Power  divine. 

Fill  thou  my  heart  with  love  as  full 

As  any  lily  with  the  rain  ; 

Unteach  me  ever  to  complain, 
And  make  my  scarlet  sins  as  wool  ; 

Yea,   wash   me,   even   with   sorrows, 
clean  and  fair, 

As  lightnings  do  the  air. 


PUTTING  OFF  THE  ARMOR. 

WHY  weep  ye  for  the  falling 
Of  the  transient  twilight  gloom  ? 


I  am  weary  of  the  journey, 

And  have  come  in  sight  of  home. 

I  can  see  a  white  procession 

Sweep  melodiously  along, 
And  I  would  not  have  your  mourning 

Drown  the  sweetness  of  their  song. 

The  battle-strife  is  ended  ; 

I  have  scaled  the  hindering  wall, 
And  am  putting  off  the  armor 

Of  the  soldier  —  that  is  all ! 

Would   you   hide   me   from   my  pleas- 
ures ? 

Would  you  hold  me  from  my  rest  ? 
From  my  serving  and  my  waiting 

I  am  called  to  be  a  guest ! 

Of  its  heavy,  hurtful  burdens 

Now  my  spirit  is  released  : 
I  am  done  with  fasts  and  scourges, 

And  am  bidden  to  the  feast. 

While  you  see  the  sun  descending, 
While  you  lose  me  in  the  night, 

Lo,  the  heavenly  morn  is  breaking, 
And  my  soul  is  in  the  light. 

I  from  faith  to  sight  am  rising 

While  in  deeps  of  doubt  you  sink ; 

'T  is  the  glory  that  divides  us, 
Not  the  darkness,  as  you  think. 

Then  lift  up  your  drooping  eyelids, 
And  take  heart  of  better  cheer; 

'T  is  the  cloud  of  coming  spirits 
Makes  the  shadows  that  ye  fear. 

Oh,  they  come  to  bear  me  upward 

To  the  mansion  of  the  sky, 
And  to  change  as  I  am  changing 

Is  to  live,  and  not  to  die  ; 

Is  to  leave  the  pain,  the  sickness, 

And  the  smiting  of  the  rod, 
And  to  dwell  among  the  angels, 

In  the  City  of  our  God. 


FORGIVENESS. 

O  THOIT  who  dost  the  sinner  meet, 
Fearing  his  garment's  hem, 

Think  of  the  Master,  and  repeat, 
"  Neither  do  I  condemn  J  " 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


149 


And  while  the  eager  rabble  stay, 
Their  storms  of  wrath  to  pour, 

Think  of  the  Master  still,  and  say, 
"  Go  thou,  and  sin  no  more  !  " 


THE  GOLDEN  MEAN. 

LEST  to  evil  ways  I  run 

When  I  go  abroad, 
Shine  about  me,  like  the  sun, 

O  my  gracious  Lord  ! 
Make  the  clouds,  with  silver  glowing, 
Like  a  mist  of  lilies  blowing 

O'er  the  summer  sward  ; 
And  mine  eyes  keep  thou  from  being 
Ever  satisfied  with  seeing, 

O  my  light,  my  Lord  ! 

Lest  my  thoughts  on  discontent 

Should  in  sleep  be  fed, 
Make  the  darkness  like  a  tent 

Round  about  my  bed  : 
Sweet  as  honey  to  the  taster, 
Make  my  dreams  be,  O  my  Master, 
Sweet  as  honey,  ere  it  loses 

Spice  of  meadow-blooms, 
While  the  taster  tastes  the  roses 

In  the  golden  combs. 

Lest  I  live  in  lowly  ease, 

Or  in  loftly  scorn, 
Make  me  like  the  strawberries 

That  run  among  the  corn  ; 
Grateful  in  the  shadows  keeping, 
Of   the   broad   leaves  o'er   me   sweep- 
ing ; 

In  the  gold  crop's  stead,  to  render 
Some  small  berries,  red  and  lender, 

Like  the  blushing  morn. 

Lest  that  pain  to  pain  be  placed  — 

Weary  day  to  day, 
Let  me  sit  at  good  men's  feasts 

When  the  house  is  gay  : 
Let  my  heart  beat  up  to  measures 
Of  all  comfortable  pleasures, 

Till  the  morning  gray, 
O'er  the  eastern  hill-tops  glancing, 
Sets  the  woodlands  all  to  dancing, 

And  scares  night  away. 

Lest  that  I  in  vain  pretense 

Careless  live  and  move, 
Heart  and  mind,  and  soul  and  sense, 

Quicken  thou  with  love  ! 
Fold  its  music  over,  under, 


Breath  of  flute  and  boom  of  thunder, 
Nor  make  satisfied  my  hearing 
As  I  go  on,  nearing,  nearing 
Him  whose  name  is  Love. 


THE  FIRE  BY  THE  SEA. 

THERE  were  seven  fishers,  with  nets  in 

their  hands, 
And    they   walked   and   talked   by  the 

sea-side  sands  ; 

Yet  sweet  as  the  sweet  dew-fall 
The   words   they   spake,   though    they 

spake  so  low,      - 

Across  the  long,  dim  centuries,  flow, 
And  we  know  them,  one  and  all  — 
Aye  !  know  them  and  love  them  all. 

Seven  sad  men  in  the  days  of  old, 
And  one  was  gentle,  and  one  was  bold, 
And    they    walked    with    downward 

eyes  ; 
The   bold   was    Peter,    the   gentle  was 

John, 
And   they  all   were   sad,  for  the  Lord 

\\as  gone, 

And  they  knew  not  if  He  would  rise  — • 
Knew  not  if  the  dead  would  rise. 

The  livelong  night,  till  the  moon  went 

out 

In  the  drowning  waters,  they  beat  about ; 
Beat  slow  through  the  fog  their  way  ; 
And  the  sails  drooped  down  with  wring- 
ing wet, 

And  no  man  drew  but  an  empty  net, 
And  now 't  was  the  break  of  the  day  — 
The  great,  glad  break  of  the  day. 

"  Cast  in  your  nets  on  the  other  side  !  " 

('T  was  Jesus  speaking  across  the  tide  ;) 

And   they   cast    and   were    dragging 

hard  ; 

But  that  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved 
Cried  straightway  out,  for  his  heart  was 

moved  : 

"  It  is  our  risen  Lord  — 
Our  Master,  and  our  Lord  !  " 

Then  Simon,  girding  his  fisher's  coat, 
Went  over  the  nets  and  out  of  the  boat  — 

Aye  !  first  of  them  all  was  he  ; 
Repenting  sore  the  denial  past, 
He  feared  no  longer  his  heart  to  cast 
Like  an  anchor  into  the  sea  — 
Down  deep  in  the  hungry  sea. 


150 


POEMS -OF  ALICE   CARY. 


And   the  others,  through  the  mists  so 

dim, 
In  a  little  ship  came  after  him, 

Dragging  their  net  through  the  tide  ; 
And  when  they  had  gotten  close  to  the 

land 

They  saw  a  fire  of  coals  on  the  sand, 
And,  with  arms  of  love  so  wide, 
Jesus,  the  crucified  ! 

'T  is  long,  and  long,  and  long  ago 
Since  the  rosy  lights  began  to  flow 

O'er  the  hills  of  Galilee  ; 
And  with  eager  eyes  and  lifted  hands 
The  seven  fishers  saw  on  the  sands 
The  fire  of  coals  by  the  sea  — 
On  the  wet,  wild  sands  by  the  sea. 

'T  is  long  ago,  yet  faith  in  our  souls 
Is  kindled  just  by  that  fire  of  coals 
That  streamed  o'er  the  mists  of  the 

sea  ; 

Where  Peter,  girding  his  fisher's  coat, 
Went    over  the   nets   and   out   of  the 

boat, 

To  answer,  "  Lov'st  thou  me  ? " 
Thrice  over,  "  Lov'st  thou  me  ?  " 


THE  SURE  WITNESS. 

THE  solemn  wood  had  spread 
Shadows  around  my  head  ; 
"  Curtains  they  are,"  I  said, 
"  Hung  dim  and  still  about  the  house  of 

prayer." 

Softly  among  the  limbs, 
Turning  the  leaves  of  hymns, 
I   heard   the  winds,  and  asked  if  God 

were  there. 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 

stood, 

Sweet  peace  made  holy  hushes  through 
the  wood. 

With  ruddy,  open  hand, 
I  saw  the  wild  rose  stand 
Beside  the  green   gate  of   the  summer 

hills  ; 

And  pulling  at  her  dress, 
I  cried,  "  Sweet  hermitess, 
Hast  thou  beheld  Him   who   the   dew 

distills?" 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 

bent, 

Her  gracious   beauty  made   my   heart 
content. 


The  moon  in  splendor  shone  ; 
"  She  walketh  heaven  alone, 
And  seeth  all  things,"  to  mvself  I  mused, 
"  Hast  thou  beheld  Him,  then, 
Who  hides  Himself  from  men 
In  that  great  power  through  nature  in- 
terfused ?  " 
No  speech  made  answer,  and  no   sign 

appeared, 

But  in  the  silence  I  was  soothed  and 
cheered. 

Waking  one  time,  strange  awe 
Thrilling  my  soul,  I  saw 
A   kingly   splendor    round    about    the 

night  ; 

Such  cunning  work  the  hand 
Of  spinner  never  planned,  — 
The  finest  wool  may  not  be  washed  so 

white. 
"  Hast  thou  come   out  of  heaven  ? "  I 

asked  ;  and  lo  ! 

The  snow  was  all  the  answer  of  the 
snow. 

Then  my  heart  said,  "  Give  o'er  ; 
Question  no  more,  no  more  ! 
The    wind,   the   snow-storm,   the    wild 

hermit  flower, 
The  illuminated  air, 
The  pleasure  after  prayer, 
Proclaim  the  unoriginated  Power  ! 
The  mystery  that  hides  Him  here  and 

there, 

Bears   the  sure  witness  He   is  every- 
where." 


A   PENITENT'S   PLEA. 

LIKE  a  child  that  is  lost 

PVom  its  home  in  the  night, 
I  grope  through  the  darkness 

And  cry  for  the  light ; 
Yea,  all  that  is  in  me 

Cries  out  for  the  day  — 
Come  Jesus,  my  Master, 

Illumine  my  way  ! 

In  the  conflicts  that  pass 

'Twixt  my  soul  and  my  God, 
I  walk  as  one  walketh 

A  fire-path,  unshod  ; 
And  in  my  despairing 

Sit  dumb  by  the  way  — - 
Come  Jesus,  my  Master, 

And  heal  me,  I  pray  ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


I  know  the  fierce  flames 

Will  not  cease  to  uproll, 
Till  thou  rainrest  the  dew 

Of  thy  love  on  my  soul  ; 
And  I  know  the  dumb  spirit 

Will  never  depart, 
Till  thou  comest  and  makest 

Thy  house  in  my  heart. 

My  thoughts  lie  within  me 

As  waste  as  the  sands  ; 
Oh  make  them  be  musical 

Strings  in  thy  hands  ! 
My  sins,  red  as  scarlet, 

Wash  white  as  a  fleece  — 
Come  Jesus,  my  Master, 

And  give  me  thy  peace  I 


LOVE   IS   LIFE. 

OUR  days  are  few  and  full  of  strife  ; 

Like  leaves  our  pleasures  fade  and 
fall  ; 

"But  Thou  who  art  the  all  in  all. 
Thy  name  is  Love,  and  love  is  Life  ! 

We  walk  in  sleep  and  think  we  see  ; 

Our  little  lives  are  clothed  with 
dreams  ; 

For  that  to  us  which  substance  seems 
Is  shadow,  'twixt  ourselves  and  thee. 

We  are  immortal  now,  and  here, 

Chances  and  changes,  night  and  day, 
Are  landmarks  in  the  eternal  way ; 

Our  fear  is  all  we  have  to  fear. 

Our  lives  are  dew-drops  in  thy  sun  ; 
Thou  breakest  them,  and  lo  !  we  see 
A  thousand  gracious  shapes  of  thee,  — 

A  thousand  shapes,  instead  of  one. 

The  soul  that  drifts  all  darkly  dim 
Through  floods  that  seem  outside  of 

grace, 

Is  only  surging  toward  the  place 
Which  thou  hast  made  and  meant  for 
him. 

For  this  we  hold,  —  ill  could  not  be 
Were  there  no  power  beyond  the  ill ; 
Our  wills  are  held  within  thy  will  ; 

The  ends  of  goodness  rest  with  thee« 

Fall  storms  of  winter  as  you  may, 
The  dry  boughs  in  the  warm  spring  rain 


Shall  put  their  green  leaves  forth  again, 
And  surely  we  are  more  than  they. 


THY  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  thee, 
And   through   them   all   thy   love 
shown  ; 

Flowing  about  us  like  a  sea, 

Yet  steadfast  as  the  eternal  throne. 

Out  of  the  light  that  runneth  through 
Thy  hand,  the  lily's  dress  is  spun  ; 

Thine  is  the  brightness  of  the  dew, 
And  thine  the  glory  of  the  sun. 


OUR  God  is  love,  and  that  which   we 

miscall 
Evil,  in  this  good  world  that  He  has 

made, 

Is  meant  to  be  a  little  tender  shade 
Between  us  and  his  glory,  —  that  is  all  ; 
And  he  who  loves  the  best  his  fellow- 
man 
Is  loving  God,  the  holiest  way  he  can. 


TIME. 

WHAT  is  time,  O  glorious  Giver, 
With  its  restlessness  and  might, 

But  a  lost  and  wandering  river 
Working  back  into  the  light  ? 

Every  gloomy  rock  that  troubles 
Its  smooth  passage,  strikes  to  life 

Beautiful  and  joyous  bubbles 

That  are  only  born  through  strife. 

Overhung  with  mist-like  shadows, 
Stretch  its  shores  away,  away, 

To  the  long,  delightful  meadows 
Shining  with  immortal  May  : 

Where  its  moaning  reaches  never, 
Passion,  pain,  or  fear  to  move, 

And  the  changes  bring  us  ever 
Sabbaths  and  new  moons  of  love. 


SUPPLICATION. 

O  THOU,  who  all  my  life  ha^t  crowned 
With  better  things  than  I  could  ask, 


152 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY, 


Be  it  to-day  my  humble  task 
To  own  from  depths  of  grief  profound, 
The  many  sins,  which  darken  through 
What  little  good  I  do. 

I  have  been  too  much  used,  I  own, 

To  tell  my  needs  in  fretful  words  ; 

The  clamoring  of  the  silly  birds, 
Impatient  till  their  wings  be  grown, 

Have  thy  forgiveness.     O  my  blessed 
Lord, 

The  like  to  me  accord. 

Of  grace,  as  much  as  will  complete 

Thy  will  in  me,  I  pray  thee  for  ; 

Even  as  a  rose  shut  in  a  drawer 
That  maketh  all  about  it  sweet, 

I  would   be,  rather  than    the    cedar 
fine  : 

Help  me,  thou  Power  divine. 

With  charity  fill  thou  my  heart, 

As  summer  fills  the  grass  with  dews, 
And  as  th'  year  itself  renews 

In  th'  sun,  when  winter  days  depart, 
Blessed  forever,  grant  thou  me 
To  be  renewed  in  thee. 


WHITHER. 

ALL  the  time  my  soul  is  calling, 
"  Whither,  whither  do  I  go  ?  " 

For  my  days  like  leaves  are  falling 
From  my  tree  of  life  below. 

Who  will  come  and  be  my  lover  ! 

Who  is  strong  enough  to  save, 
When  that  I  am  leaning  over 

The  dark  silence  of  the  grave  ? 

Wherefore  should  my  soul  be  calling, 
"  Whither,  whither  do  I  go  ?  " 

For  my  days  like  leaves  are  falling 
In  the  hand  of  God,  I  know. 

As  the  seasons  touch  their  ending, 
As  the  dim  years  fade  and  flee, 

Let  me  rather  still  be  sending 
-Some  good  deed  to  plead  for  me. 

Then,  though  none  should  stay  to  weep 
me, 

Lover-like,  within  the  shade, 
He  will  hold  me,  He  will  keep  me, 

And  I  will  not  be  afraid. 


SURE   ANCHOR. 

OUT  of  the  heavens  come  down  to  me, 
O  Lord,  and  hear  my  earnest  prayer  ; 

On  life  above  the  life  I  see 

Fix  thou  my  soul,  and  keep  it  there. 

The  richest  joys  of  earth  are  poor ; 

The  fairest  forms  are  all  unfair  ; 
On  what  is  peaceable  and  pure 

Set  thou  my  heart,  and  keep  it  there. 

Pride  builds  her  house  upon  the  sand  ; 

Ambition  treads  the  spider's  stair ; 
On  whatsoever  things  will  stand 

Set  thou  my  feet,  and  keep  them  there. 

The  past  is  vanished  in  the  past ; 

The  future  doth  a  shadow  wear  ; 
On  whatsoever  things  are  fast 

Fix  thou  mine  eyes,  and  keep  them 
there. 

In  spite  of  slander's  tongue,  in  spite 
Of  burdens  grievous  hard  to  bear, 

To  whatsoever  things  are  right 

Set  thou  my  hand,  and  keep  it  there. 

Life  is  a  little  troubled  breath, 
Love  but  another  name  for  care  ; 

Lord,  anchor  thou  my  hope  and  faith 
In  things  eternal,  —  only  there. 


REMEMBER. 

IN  thy  time,  and  times  of  mourning, 
When  grief  doeth  all  she  can 

To  hide  the  prosperous  sunshine, 
Remember  this,  O  man,  — 

"  He  setteth  an  end  to  darkness." 

Sad  saint,  of  the  world  forgotten, 
Who  workest  thy  work  apart, 

Take  thou  this  promise  for  comfort, 
And  hold  it  in  thy  heart,  — 

"  He  searcheth  out  all  perfection." 

O  foolish  and  faithless  sailor, 
When  the  ship  is  driven  away, 

When  the  waves  forget  their  places, 
And  the  anchor  will  not  stay,  — 

"  He  weigheth  the  waters  by  measure  " 

O  outcast,  homeless,  bewildered, 
Let  now  thy  murmurs  be  still, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


153 


Go  in  at  the  gates  of  gladness 

And  eat  of  the  feast  at  will,  — 
"  For  wisdom  is  better  than  riches." 

O  diligent,  diligent  sower, 
Who  sowest  thy  seed  in  vain, 

When  the  corn  in  the  ear  is  withered, 
And  the  young  flax  dies  for  rain,  — 

"  Through  rocks  He   cutteth   out   riv- 


ADELIED. 

UNPRATSED  but  of  my  simple  rhymes, 
She  pined  from  life  and  died, 

The  softest  of  all  April  times 
That  storm  and  shine  divide. 

The  swallow  twittered  within  reach 

Impatient  of  the  rain, 
And  the  red  blossoms  of  the  peach 

Blew  down  against  the  pane. 

When,  feeling  that  life's  wasting  sands 

Were  wearing  into  hours, 
She  took  her  long  locks  in  her  hands 

And  gathered  out  the  flowers. 

The  day  was  nearly  on  the  close, 

And  on  the  eave  in  sight, 
The  doves  were  gathered  in  white  rows 

With  bosoms  to  the  light ; 

When  first  my  sorrow  flowed  to  rhymes 

For  gentle  Adelied  — 
The  light  of  thrice  five  April  times 

Had  kissed  her  when  she  died. 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 

O  DAY  to  sweet  religious  thought 

So  wisely  set  apart, 
Back  to  the  silent  strength  of  life 

Help  thou  my  wavering  heart. 

Nor  let  the  obtrusive  lives  of  sense 

My  meditations  draw 
From  the  composed,  majestic  realm 

Of  everlasting  law. 

Break  down  whatever  hindering  shapes 

I  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
And  make  my  soul  acquainted  with 

Celestial  company. 


Beyond  the  wintry  waste  of  death 
Shine  fields  of  heavenly  light ; 

Let  not  this  incident  of  time 
Absorb  me  from  their  sight. 

I  know  these  outward  forms  wherein 
So  much  my  hopes  I  stay, 

Are  but  the  shadowy  hints  of  that 
\Vhich  cannot  pass  away. 

That  just  outside  the  work-day  path 

By  man's  volition  trod, 
Lie  the  resistless  issues  of 

The  things  ordained  of  God. 


IN  THE  DARK. 

OUT  of  the  earthly  years  we  live 
How  small  a  profit  springs  ; 

I  cannot  think  but  life  should  give 
Higher  and  better  things. 

The  very  ground  whereon  we  tread 
Is  clothed  to  please  our  sight ; 

I  cannot  think  that  we  have  read 
Our  dusty  lesson  right. 

So  little  comfort  we  receive, 
Except  through  what  we  see, 

I  cannot  think  we  half  believe 
Our  immortality. 

We  disallow  and  trample  so 
The  rights  of  poor  weak  men, 

I  cannot  think  we  feel  and  know 
They  are  our  brethren. 

So  rarely  our  affections  move 

Without  a  selfish  guard, 
I  cannot  think  we  know  that  love 

Is  all  of  love's  reward. 

To  him  who  smites,  the  cheek  is  turned 

With  such  a  slow  consent, 
I  cannot  think  that  we  have  learrfed 

The  holy  Testament. 

Blind,  ignorant,  we  grope  along 

A  path  misunderstood, 
Mingling  with  folly  and  with  wrong 

Some  providential  good. 

Striving  with  vain  and  idle  strife 

In  outward  shows  to  live, 
We  famish,  knowing  not  that  life 

Has  better  things  to  give. 


154 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


PARTING    SONG. 

THE  long  day  is  closing, 
Ah,  why  should  you  weep  ? 

'T  is  thus  that  God  gives 
His  beloved  ones  sleep. 

I  see  the  wide  water 

So  deep  and  so  black,  — 
Love  waits  rne  beyond  it,    - 

I  would  not  go  back  ! 

I  would  not  go  back 

Where  its  joys  scarce  may  gleam, 
Where  even  in  dreaming 

We  know  that  we  dream  ; 

For  though  life  filled  for  me 

All  measures  of  bliss, 
Has  it  anything  better 

Or  sweeter  than  this  ? 

I  would  not  go  back 

To  the  torment  of  fear,  — 

To  the  wastes  of  uncomfort 
When  home  is  so  near. 

Each  night  is  a  prison-bar 

Broken  and  gone,  — 
Each  morning  a  golden  gate, 

On,  —  farther  on  ! 

On,  on  toward  the  city 

So  shining  and  fair  ; 
And  He  that  hath  loved  me  — 

Died  for  me  —  is  there. 


THE  HEAVEN  THAT  'S  HERE. 

MY  God,  I  feel  thy  wondrous  might 
In  Nature's  various  shows,  — 

The  whirlwind's  breath,  —  the  tender 

light 
Of  the  rejoicing  rose. 

For  doth  not  that  same  power  enfold 

Whatever  things  are  new, 
Which  shone  about  the  saints  of  old 

And  struck  the  seas  in  two  ? 

Ashamed,  I  veil  my  fearful  eyes 
From  this,  thy  earthly  reign  ; 

What  shall  I  do  when  I  arise 
From  death,  but  die  again  ! 


What  shall  I  do  but  prostrate  fall 

Before  the  splendor  there, 
That  here,  so  dazzles  me  through  all 

The  dusty  robes  I  wear. 

Life's  outward  and  material  laws, — 
Love,  sunshine,  all  things  bright,  — 

Are  curtains  which  thy  mercy  draws 
To  shield  us  from  that  light. 

I  falter  when  I  try  to  seek 

The  world  which  these  conceal ; 

I  stammer  when  I  fain  would  speak 
The  reverence  that  I  feel. 

I  dare  not  pray  to  thee  to  give 
That  heaven  which  shall  appear  ; 

My  cry  is,  Help  me,  thou,  to  live 
Within  the  heaven  that  's  here. 


AMONG  the  pitfalls  in  our  way 
The  best  of  us  walk  blindly  ; 

O  man,  be  wary  !  watch  and  pray, 
And  judge  your  brother  kindly. 

Help  back  his  feet,  if  they  have  slid, 
Nor  count  him  still  your  debtor ; 

Perhaps  the  very  wrong  he  did 
Has  made  yourself  the  better. 


THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE. 

THE  stream  of  life  is  going  dry  ; 

Thank  God,  that  more  and  more 
I  see  the  golden  sands,  which  I 

Could  never  see  before. 


The 


dark   with   graves    of 


banks   are 

friends ; 
Thank  God,  for  faith  sublime 
In  the  eternity  that  sends 
Its  shadows  into  time. 


The 


are   gone 


that  with  their 


flowers 
glow 

Of  sunshine  filled  the  grass  ; 
Thank   God,   they  were   but   dim 

low 
Reflections  in  a  glass. 


and 


The  autumn  winds  are  blowing  chill ; 

The  summer  warmth  is  done  ; 
Thank  God,  the  little  dew-strop  still 

Is  drawn  into  the  sun. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND   HYMNS. 


155 


Strange  stream,  to  be  exhaled  so  fast 

In  cloudy  cares  and  tears  ; 
Thank   God,    that   it   should   shine   at 
last 

Along  the  immortal  years. 


DEAD  AND  ALIVE. 

TILL  I  learned  to  love  thy  name, 

Lord,  thy  grace  denying, 
I  was  lost  in  sin  and  shame, 

Dying,  dying,  dying  ! 

Nothing  could  the  world  impart ; 

Darkness  held  no  morrow  ; 
In  my  soul  and  in  my  heart 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  sorrow  ! 

All  the  blossoms  came  to  blight ; 

Noon  was  dull  and  dreary  ; 
Night  and  day,  and  day  and  night, 

Weary,  weary,  weary  ! 

When  I  learned  to  love  thy  name, 

Peace  beyond  all  measure 
Came,  and  in  the  stead  of  shame, 

Pleasure,  pleasure,  pleasure  ! 

Winds  may  beat,  and  storms  may  fall, 
Thou,  the  meek  and  lowly, 

Reignest,  and  I  sing  through  all,  — 
Holy,  holy,  holy  ! 

Life  may  henceforth  never  be 

Like  a  dismal  story, 
For  beyond  its  bound  I  see 

Glory,  glory,  glory  ! 


INVOCATION. 

COME  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us, 
Thou  that  once  life's  pathway  trod, 

Knowing  all  its  gloom  and  glory,  — 
Son  of  man,  and  Son  of  God. 

Come  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us, 
When  our  hopes  before  us  flee  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a  man  of  sorrows, 
Tried  and  tempted,  even  as  we. 

By  the  weakness  of  our  nature, 
By  the  burdens  of  our  care, 


Steady  up  our  fainting  courage,  — 
Save,  oh  save  us  from  despair  ! 

By  the  still  and  strong  temptation 
Of  consenting  hearts  within  ; 

By  the  power  of  outward  evil, 
Save,  oh  save  us  from  our  sin  ! 

By  the  infirm  and  bowed  together,  — 
By  the  demons  far  and  near,  — 

By  all  sick  and  sad  possessions, 
Save,  oh  save  us  from  our  fear  ! 

From  the  dim  and  dreary  doubting 
That  with  faith  a  warfare  make, 

Save  us,   through   thy   sweet   compas- 
sion, — 
Save  us,  for  thy  own  name's  sake. 

And  when  all  of  life  is  finished 
To  the  last  low  fainting  breath, 

Meet  us  in  the  awful  shadows, 
And  deliver  us  from  death. 


LIFE  OF  LIFE. 

To  Him  who  is  the  Life  of  life, 
My  soul  its  vows  would  pay  ; 

He  leads  the  flowery  seasons  on, 
And  gives  the  storm  its  way. 


The 


backward    to    their 


winds    run 
caves 

At  his  divine  command,  — 
And  the  great  deep  He  folds  within 
The  hollow  of  his  hand. 

He  clothes  the  grass,  He  makes  the  rose 

To  wear  her  good  attire  ; 
The  moon  He  gives  her  patient  grace, 

And  all  the  stars  their  fire. 

He  hears  the  hungry  raven's  cry, 
And  sends  her  young  their  food, 

And  through  our  evil  intimates 
His  purposes  of  good. 

He  stretches  out  the  north,  He  binds 

The  tempest  in  his  care  ; 
The  mountains  cannot  strike  their  roots 

So  deep  He  is  not  there. 

Hid  in  the  garment  of  his  works, 

We  feel  his  presence  still 
With  us,  and  through  us  fashioning 

The  mystery  of  his  will. 


156 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


MERCIES. 

LEST  the  great  glory  from  on  high 
Should  make  our  senses  swim, 

Our  blessed  Lord  hath  spread  the  sky 
Between  ourselves  and  Him. 

He  made  the  Sabbath  shine  before 
The  work-days  and  the  care, 

And  set  about  its  golden  door 
The  messengers  of  prayer. 

Across  our  earthly  pleasures  fled 
He  sends  his  heavenly  light, 

Like  morning  streaming  broad  and  red 
Adown  the  skirts  of  night. 

He  nearest  comes  when  most  his  face 
Is  wrapt  in  clouds  of  gloom ; 

The  firmest  pillars  of  his  grace 
Are  planted  in  the  tomb. 

Oh  shall  we  not  the  power  of  sin 

And  vanity  withstand, 
When  thus  our  Father  holds  us  in 

The  hollow  of  his  hand  ? 


PLEASURE  AND  PAIN. 

PLEASURE    and    pain    walk    hand    in 
hand, 

Each  is  the  other's  poise  ; 
The  borders  of  the  silent  land 

Are  full  of  troubled  noise. 

While  harvests  yellow  as  the  day 

In  plenteous  billows  roll, 
Men  go  about  in  blank  dismay, 

Hungry  of  heart  and  soul. 

Like  chance-sown  weeds  they  grow,  and 
drift 

On  to  the  drowning  main  ; 
Oh,  for  a  lever  that  would  lift 

Thought  to  a  higher  plane  ! 

Sin  is  destructive  :  he  is  dead 
Whose  soul  is  lost  to  truth  ; 

While  virtue  makes  the  hoary  head 
Bright  with  eternal  youth. 

There  is  a  courage  that  partakes 

Of  cowardice  ;  a  high 
And  honest-hearted  fear  that  makes 

The  man  afraid  to  lie. 


When  no  low  thoughts  of  self  intrude, 

Angels  adjust  our  rights  ; 
And  love  that  seeks  its  selfish  good 

Dies  in  its  own  delights. 

How  much  we  take,  —  how  little  give,  — 

Yet  every  life  is  meant 
To  help  all  lives  ;  each  man  should  live 

For  all  men's  betterment. 


MYSTERIES. 

CLOUDS,  with  a  little  light  between  ; 

Pain,  passion,  fear,  and  doubt,  — 
What  voice  shall  tell   me  what   they 
mean  ? 

I  cannot  find  them  out ! 

Hopeless  my  task  is,  to  begin, 
Who  fail  with  all  my  power, 

To  read  the  crimson  lettering  in 
The  modest  meadow  flower. 

Death,  with  shut  eyes  and  icy  cheek, 

Bearing  that  bitter  cup  ; 
Oh,  who  is  wise  enough  to  speak, 

And  break  its  silence  up  ! 

Or  read  the  evil  writing  on 

The  wall  of  good,  for,  oh, 
The  more  my  reason  shines  upon 

Its  lines,  the  less  I  know  : 

Or  show  how  dust  became  a  rose, 

And  what  it  is  above 
All  mysteries  that  doth  compose 

Discordance  into  love. 

I  only  know  that  wisdom  planned, 

And  that  it  is  my  part 
To  trust,  who  cannot  understand 

The  beating  of  my  heart. 


LYRIC. 

THOU  givest,  Lord,  to  Nature  law, 
And  she  in  turn  cloth  give 

Her  poorest  flower  a  right  to  draw 
Whate'er  she  needs  to  live. 

The  dews  upon  her  forehead  fall, 
The  sunbeams  round  her  lean, 

And  dress  her  humble  form  with  all 
The  glory  of  a  queen. 


RELIGIOUS  FOE  ATS  AND  HYMNS. 


157 


In  thickets  wild,  in  woodland  bowers, 

By  waysides,  everywhere, 
The  plainest  flower  of  all  the  flowers 

Is  shining  with  thy  care. 

And  shall  I,  through  my  fear  and  doubt, 

Be  less  than  one  of  these, 
And  come  from  seeking  thee  without 

By  blessed  influences  ? 

Thou  who  hast  crowned  my  life  with 
powers 

So  large,  —  so  high  above 
The  fairest  flower  of  all  the  flowers, — 

Forbid  it  by  thy  love. 


TRUST. 

AWAY  with  all  life's  memories, 

Away  with  hopes,  away  ! 
Lord,  take  me  up  into  thy  love, 

And  keep  me  there  to-day. 

I  cannot  trust  to  mortal  eyes 

My  weakness  and  my  sin  ; 
Temptations  He  alone  can  judge, 

Who  knows  what  they  have  been. 

But  I  can  trust  Him  who  provides 
The  thirsty  ground  with  dew, 

And  round  the  wounded  beetle  builds 
His  grassy  house  anew. 

For  the  same   hand  that  smites  with 
pain, 

And  sends  the  wintry  snows, 
Doth  mould  the  frozen  clod  again 

Into  the  summer  rose. 

My  soul  is  melted  by  that  love, 

So  tender  and  so  true  ; 
I  can  but  cry,  My  Lord  and  God, 

What  wilt  tbou  have  me  do  ? 

My  blessings  all  come  back  to  me, 
And  round  about  me  stand  ; 

Help  me  to  climb  their  dizzy  stairs 
Until  I  touch  thy  hand. 


ALL  IN  ALL. 

AWEARY,  wounded  unto  death, — 
Unfavored  of  men's  eyes, 


I  have  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 
Eternal,  in  the  skjes. 

A  house  where  but  the  steps  of  faith 
Through  the  white  light  have  trod, 

Steadfast  among  the  mansions  of 
The  City  of  our  God. 

There  never  shall  the  sun  go  down 

From  the  lamenting  day  ; 
There  storms  shall  never  rise  to  beat 

The  light  of  love  away. 

There  living  streams  through  deathless 
flowers 

Are  flowing  free  and  wide  ; 
There  souls  that  thirsted  here  below 

Drink,  and  are  satisfied. 

I  know  my  longing  shall  be  filled 
When  this  weak,  wasting  clay 

Is  folded  like  a  garment  from 
My  soul,  and  laid  away. 

I  know  it  by  th'  immortal  hopes 
That  wrestle  down  my  fear, — 

By  all  the  awful  mysteries 
That  hide  heaven  from  us  here. 

Oh  what  a  blissful  heritage 

On  such  as  I  to  fall : 
Possessed  of  thee,  my  Lord  and  God, 

I  am  possessed  of  all. 


THE   PURE  IN   HEART. 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see 
God." 

I  ASKED  the  angels  in  my  prayer, 
With  bitter  tears  and  pains, 

To  show  mine  eyes  the  kingdom  where 
The  Lord  of  glory  reigns. 

I  said,  My  way  with  doubt  is  dim, 

My  heart  is  sick  with  fear  ; 
Oh  come,  and  help  me  build  to  Him 

A  tabernacle  here  ! 

The  storms  of  sorrow  wildly  beat, 
The  clouds  with  death  are  chill ; 

I  long  to  hear  his  voice  so  sweet, 

Who  whispered,  "  Peace  ;  be  still !  " 

The  angels  said,  God  giveth  you 
His  love,  —  what  more  is  ours  ? 


I58 

And  even  as  the  gentle  dew 
Descends  upon  the  flowers, 

His  grace  descends  ;  and,  as  of  old, 

He  walks  with  man  apart, 
Keeping  the  promise  as  foretold, 

With  all  the  pure  in  heart. 

Thou  need'st  not  ask  the  angels  where 

His  habitations  be  ; 
Keep  thou  thy  spirit  clean  and  fair, 

And  He  shall  dwell  with  thee. 


UNSATISFIED. 

COME  out  from  heaven,  O  Lord,  and  be 

my  guide, 
Come,  I  implore  ; 

To  my  dark  questionings  unsatisfied, 
Leave  me  no  more,  — 
No  more,  O  Lord,  no  more  ! 

Forgetting  how  my  nights  and  how  my 

days 

Run  sweetly  by,  — 
Forgetting    that    thy   ways    above    our 

ways 

Are-all  so  high,  — 
I  cry,  and  ever  cry  — 

Since  that  thou  leavest  not  the  wildest 

glen, 

For  flowers  to  wait, 
How  leavest  thou  the  hearts  of  living 

men 

So  desolate,  — 
So  darkly  desolate  ? 

Thou  keepest  safe  beneath  the  wintry 

snow 

The  little  seed, 
And   leavest   under  all   its  weights  of 

woe, 

The  heart  to  bleed, 
And  vainly,  vainly  plead. 

In  the  dry  root  thou  stirrest  up  the  sap ; 
At  thy  commands 

Cometh   the  rain,  and   all  the   bushes 

clap 

Their  rosy  hands  : 
Man  only,  thirsting,  stands. 

Is    it   for    envy,    or   from    wrath    that 

springs 
From  foolish  pride, 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE    CARY. 


Thou  leavest  him  to  his  dark  question- 
ings 

Unsatisfied,  — 
Always  unsatisfied  ? 


OCCASIONAL. 

OUR  mightiest  in  our  midst  is  slain  ; 

The  mourners  weep  around, 
Broken  and  bowed  with  bitter  pain, 

And  bleeding  through  his  wound. 

Prostrate,  o'erwhelmed,    with   anguish 
torn, 

We  cry,  great  God,  for  aid ; 
Night  fell  upon  us,  even  at  morn, 

And  we  are  sore  afraid. 

Afraid  of  our  infirmities, 

In  this,  our  woeful  woe,  — 
Afraid  to  breast  the  bloody  seas 

That  hard  against  us  flow. 

The  sword  we  sheathed,  our  enemy 
Has  bared,  and  struck  us  through  ; 

And  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit  cry, 
What  wilt  thou  have  us  do  ! 

Be  with  our  country  in  this  grief 

That  lies  across  her  path, 
Lest  that  she  mourn  her  martyred  chief 

With  an  unrighteous  wrath. 

Give  her  that  steadfast  faith  and  trust 
That  look  through  all,  to  Thee ; 

And  in  her  mercy  keep  her  just, 
And  through  her  justice,  free. 


LIGHT   AND   DARKNESS. 

DARKNESS,  blind  darkness  every  way, 
With  low  illuminings  of  light; 

Hints,  intimations  of  the  day 
That  never  breaks  to  full,  clear  light 

High  longing  for  a  larger  light  _ 
Urges  us  onward  o'er  life's  hill ; 

Low  fear  of  darkness  and  of  night 
Presses  us  back  and  holds  us  still. 

i 

So  while  to  Hope  we  give  one  hand, 
The  other  hand  to  Fear  we  lend  ; 


RKLIGTOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


159 


And  thus  'tvvixt  high  and  low  we  stand, 
Waiting* and  wavering  to  the  end. 

Eager  for  some  ungotten  good, 

We  mind  the  false  and^miss  the  true  ; 

Leaving  undone  the  things  we  would, 
We  do  the  things  we  would  not  do. 

For  ill  in  good  and  good  in  ill, 

The  verity,  the  thing  that  seems,  — 

They  run  into  each  other  still, 

Like  dreams   in   truth,  like   truth  in 
dreams. 

Seeing  the  world  with  sin  imbued, 
We  trust  that  in  the  eternal  plan 

Some  little  drop  of  brightest  blood 
Runs   through   the   darkest   heart  of 
man. 

Living  afar  from  what  is  near, 

Uplooking  while  we  downward  tend  ; 

In  light  and  shadow,  hope  and  fear, 
We  sin  and  suffer  to  the  end. 


SUBSTANCE. 

EACH  fearful  storm  that  o'er  us  rolls, 

Each  path  of  peril  trod, 
Is  but  a  means  whereby  our  souls 

Acquaint  themselves  with  God. 

Our  want  and  weakness,  shame  and  sin, 
His  pitying  kindness  prove  ; 

And  all  our  lives  are  folded  in 
The  mystery  of  his  love. 

The  grassy  land,  the  flowering  trees, 
The  waters,  wild  and  dim, — 

These  are  the  cloud  of  witnesses 
That  testify  of  Him. 

His  sun  is  shining,  sure  and  fast, 
O'er  all  our  nights  of  dread  ; 

Our  darkness  by  his  light,  at  last 
Shall  be  interpreted. 

No  promise  shall  He  fail  to  keep 

Until  we  see  his  face  ; 
E'en  death  is  but  a  tender  sleep 

In  the  eternal  race. 

Time's  empty  shadow  cheats  our  eyes, 

But  all  the  heavens  declare 
The  substance  of  the  things  we  prize 

Is  there  and  only  there. 


LIFE'S   MYSTERY. 

LIFE'S  sadly  solemn  mystery 
Hangs  o'er  me  like  a  weight ; 

The  glorious  longing  to  be  free, 
The  gloomy  bars  of  fate. 

Alternately  the  good  and  ill, 
The  light  and  dark,  are  strung  ; 

Fountains  of  love  within  my  heart, 
And  hate  upon  my  tongue. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  unstable  ground, 

Above  my  head  the  skies  ; 
Immortal  longings  in  my  soul, 

And  death  before  my  eyes. 

No  purely  pure,  and  perfect  good, 
No  high,  unhindered  power  ; 

A  beauteous  promise  in  the  bud, 
And  mildew  on  the  flower. 

The  glad,  green  brightness  of  the  spring ; 

The  summer,  soft  and  warm  ; 
The  faded  autumn's  fluttering  gold, 

The  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

To  find  some  sure  interpreter 

My  spirit  vainly  tries  ; 
I  only  know  that  God  is  love, 

And  know  that  love  is  wise. 


FOR   SELF-HELP. 

MASTER,  I  do  not  ask  that  thou 

With  milk  and  wine  my  table  spread, 

So  much,  as  for  the  will  to  plough 
And    sow   my  fields,   and    earn   my 
bread  ; 

Lest  at  thy  coming  I  be  found 

A  useless  cumberer  of  the  ground. 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  wilt  bless 
With  gifts  of  heavenly  sort  my  day, 

So  much,  as  that  my  hands  may  dress 
The  borders  of  my  lowly  way 

With    constant    deeds    of    good    and 
right, 

Thereby  reflecting  heavenly  light. 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  shouldst  lift 
My  feet  to  mountain-heights  sublime, 

So  much,  as  for  the  heavenly  gift 

Of  strength,  with  which  myself  may 
climb, 


i6o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Making  the  power  them  madest  mine 
For  using,  by  that  use,  divine. 

I  do  not  ask  that  there  may  flow 
Glory  about  me  from  the  skies ; 

The   knowledge,  that  doth   knowledge 

know  ; 
The  wisdom  that  is  not  too  wise 

To  see  in  all  things  good  and  fair, 

Thy  love  attested,  is  my  prayer. 


DYING   HYMN. 

EARTH,   with   its  dark  and  dreadful 
ills, 

Recedes,  and  fades  away  ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives, 

Low  as  the  grave,  to  go  ; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  : 

That  I  shall'live,  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see, 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King ; 

O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ! 
O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ! 


EXTREMITIES. 

WHEN  the  mildew's  blight  we  see 
Over  all  the  harvest  spread, 

Humbly,  Lord,  we  cry  to  thee, 
Give,  oh  give  us,  daily  bread  ! 

But  the  full  and  plenteous  ears 

Many  a  time  we  reap  with  tears. 

When  the  whirlwind  rocks  the  land, 
When  the  gathering  clouds  alarm, 

Lord,  within  thy  sheltering  hand, 
Hide,  oh  hide  us  from  the  storm  ! 

So  with  trembling  souls  we  cry, 

Till  the  cloud  and  noise  pass  by. 


When  our  pleasures  fade  away, 
When  our  hopes  delusive  prove, 

Prostrate  at  thy  feet  we  pray, 

Shield,  oh  shield  us  with  thy  love  ! 

But,  our  anxious  plea  allowed, 

We  grow  petulant  and  proud. 

When  life's  little  day  turns  dull, 
When  the  avenging  shades  begin, 

Save  us,  O  most  Merciful, 

Save  us,  save  us  from  our  sin  ! 

So,  the  last  dread  foe  being  near, 

We  entreat  thee,  through  our  fear. 

Ere  the  dark  our  light  efface, 
Ere  our  pleasure  fleeth  far, 

Make  us  worthier  of  thy  grace, 
Stubborn  rebels  that  we  are  ; 

While  our  good  days  round  us  shine, 

O  our  Father,  make  us  thine. 


HERE   AND   THERE. 

HERE  is  the  sorrow,  the  sighing, 
Here  are  the  cloud  and  the  night; 

Here  is  the  sickness,  the  dying, 
There  are  the  life  and  the  light ! 

Here  is  the  fading,  the  wasting, 
The  foe  that  so  watchfully  waits; 

There  are  the  hills  everlasting, 
The  city  with  beautiful  gates. 

Here  are  the  locks  growing  hoary, 
The  glass  with  the  vanishing  sands  ; 

There  are  the  crown  and  the  glory, 
The  house  that  is  made  not  with  hands. 

Here  is  the  longing,  the  vision, 
The  hopes  that  so  swiftly  remove  ; 

There  is  the  blessed  fruition, 

The  feast,  and  the  fullness  of  love. 

Here  are  the  heart-strings  a-tremble 
And  here'is  the  chastening  rod  ; 

There  is  the  song  and  the  cymbal, 
And  there  is  our  Father  and  God. 


THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE. 

AFTER  the  cloud  and  the  whirlwind, 
After  the  long,  dark  night, 

After  the  dull,  slow  marches, 
And  the  thick,  tumultuous  fight, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


161 


Thank  God,  we  see  the  lifting 
Of  the  golden,  glorious  light ! 

After  the  sorrowful  partings, 

After  the  sickening  fear, 
And  after  the  bitter  sealing 

With  blood,  of  year  to  year, 
Thank  God,  the  light  is  breaking  ; 

Thank  God,  the  day  is  here  ! 

The  land  is  rilled  with  mourning 
For  husbands  and  brothers  slain, 

But  a  hvmn  of  glad  thanksgiving 
Rises  over  the  pain  ; 

Thank  God,  our  gallant  soldiers 
Have  not  gone  down  in  vain  ! 

The  cloud  is  spent ;  the  whirlwind 
That  vexed  the  night  is  past ; 

And  the  day  whose  blessed  dawning 
We  see,  shall  surely  last, 

Till  all  the  broken  fetters 
To  ploughshares  shall  be  cast ! 

When  over  the  field  of  battle 
The  grass  grows  green,  and  when 

II 


The  Spirit  of  Peace  shall  have  planted 

Her  olives  once  again, 
Oh,  how'  the  hosts  of  the  people 

Shall  cry,  Amen,  Amen  ! 


WHY  should  our  spirits  be  opprest 
When  days  of  darkness  fall  ? 

Our  Father  knoweth  what  is  best, 
And  He  hath  made  them  all. 

He  made  them,  and  to  all  their  length 

Set  parallels  of  gain  ; 
We  gather  from  our  pain  the  strength 

To  rise  above  our  pain. 

All,  all  beneath  the  shining  sun 

Is  vanity  and  dust ; 
Help  us,  O  high  and  holy  One, 

To  fix  in  thee  our  trust ; 

And  in  the  change,  and  interfuse 
Of  change,  with  every  hour, 

To  recognize  the  shifting  hues 
Of  never-changing  Power. 


POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


THE  LITTLE  BLACKSMITH. 

WE  heard  his  hammer  all  day  long 

On  the  anvil  ring  and  ring, 
But  he  always  came  when  the  sun  went 
down 

To  sit  on  the  gate  and  sing. 

His  little  hands  so  hard  and  brown 

Crossed  idly  on  his  knee, 
And  straw  hat  lopping  over  cheeks 

As  red  as  they  could  be  ; 

His  blue  and  faded  jacket  trimmed 
With  signs  of  work,  —  his  feet 

All  bare  and  fair  upon  the  grass, 
He  made  a  picture  sweet. 

For  still  his  shoes,  with  iron  shod, 
On  the  smithy-wall  he  hung  ; 

As  forth  he  came  when   the  sun  went 

down. 
And  sat  on  the  gate  and  sung. 

The  whistling  rustic  tending  cows, 
Would  keep  in  pastures  near, 

And  half  the  busy  villagers 
Lean  from  their  doors  to  hear. 

And  from  the  time  the  bluebirds  came 
And  made  the  hedges  bright, 

Until  the  stubble  yellow  grew, 
He  never  missed  a  night. 

The  hammer's  stroke  on  the  anvil  rilled 
His  heart  with  a  happy  ring, 

And  that  was  why,  when  the  sun  went 

down, 
He  came  to  the  gate  to  sing. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

BLESSINGS,  blessings  on  the  beds 
Whose  white  pillows  softly  bear, 


Rows  of  little  shining  heads 
That  have  never  known  a  care. 

Pity  for  the  heart  that  bleeds 
In  the  homestead  desolate 

Where  no  little  troubling  needs 
Make  the  weary  working  wait. 

Safely,  safely  to  the  fold 

Bring  them  wheresoe'er  they  be, 
Thou,  who  saidst  of  them,  of  old, 

"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me." 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

TO  BE  READ  BY  ALL  WHO  DEAL  HARDLV 
WITH  YOUNG  CHILDREN. 

PART  I. 

UP,  Gregory  !  the  cloudy  east 

Is  bright  with  the  break  o'  the  day  ;" 

'T  is  time  to  yoke  our  cattle,  and  time 
To  eat  our  crust  and  away. 

Up,  out  o'  your  bed  !  for  the  rosy  red 
Will  soon  be  growing  gray. 

Aye,  straight  to  your  feet,  my  lazy  lad, 
And  button  your  jacket  on  — 

Already  neighbor  Joe  is  afield, 
And  so  is  our  neighbor  John  — 

The  golden  light  is  turned  to  white 
And  't  is  time  that  we  were  gone  ! 

Nay,  leave  your  shoes  hung  high  and 
dry  — 

Do  you  fear  a  little  sleet  ? 
Your  mother  to-day  is  not  by  half 

So  dainty  with  her  feet, 
And  I  '11  warrant  you  she  had  n't  a  shoe 

At  your  age  upon  her  feet ! 

What !  shiv'ring  on  an  April  day  ? 
Why  this  is  pretty  news  ! 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


163 


The  frosts  before  an  hour  will  all 

Be  melted  into  dews, 
And  Christmas  week  will  do,  I  think, 

To  talk  about  your  shoes  ! 

Waiting  to  brew  another  cup 

Of  porridge  ?  sure  you  're  mad  — 

One  cup  at  your  age,  Gregory, 
And  precious  small,  I  had. 

We  cannot  bake  the  Christmas  cake 
At  such  a  rate,  my  lad  ! 

Out,  out  at  once  !  and  on  with  the  yoke, 
Your  feet  will  never  freeze  ! 

The  sun  before  we  have  done  a  stroke 
Will  be  in  the  tops  o'  the  trees. 

A-Christmas  Day  you  may  eat  and  play 
As  much  as  ever  you  please  ! 

So  out  of  the  house,  and  into  the  sleet, 

With  his  jacket  open  wide, 
Went  pale  and  patient  Gregory  — 

All  present  joy  denied  — 
And  yoked  his  team  like  one  in  a  dream, 

Hungry  and  sleepy-eyed. 

PART  II. 

It  seemed  to  our  little  harvester 
He  could  hear  the  shadows  creep ; 

For  the  scythe  lay  idle  on  the  grass, 
And  the  reaper  had  ceased  to  reap. 

'T  was  the  burning  noon  of  the  leafy 

June, 
And  the  birds  were  all  asleep 

And  he  seemed  to  rather  see  than  hear 
The  wind  through  the  long  leaves 

draw, 
As  he  sat  and  notched  the  stops  along 

His  pipe  of  hollow  straw. 
On  Christmas  Day  he  had  planned  to 

play 
His  tune  without  a  flaw. 

Upon  his  sleeve  the  spider's  web 
Hung  loose  like  points  of  lace, 
And  he  looked  like  a  picture  painted 

there, 

He  was  so  full  of  grace. 
For  his  cheeks  they  shone  as  if  there 

had  blown 
Fresh  roses  in  his  face. 

Ah,  never  on  his  lady's  arm 

A  lover's  hand  was  laid 
With  touches  soft  as  his  upon 

The  flute  that  he  had  made, 


As  he  bent  his  ear  and  watched  to  hear 
The  sweet,  low  tune  he  played. 

But  all  at  once  from  out  his  cheek 
The  light  o'  the  roses  fled  — 

He    had    heard    a    coming    step    that 

crushed 
The  daisies  'neath  its  tread. 

O  happiness  !  thou  art  held  by  less 
Than  the  spider's  tiniest  thread  ! 

A  moment,  and  the  old  harsh  call 

Had  broken  his  silver  tune, 
And  with  his  sickle  .all  as  bright 

And  bent  as  the  early  moon, 
He  cut  his  way  through  the  thick  set  hay 

In  the  burning  heat  o'  the  June. 

As  one  who  by  a  river  stands, 

Weary  and  worn  and  sad, 
And  sees  the  flowers  the  other  side  — 

So  was  it  with  the  lad. 
There  was  Christmas  light  in  his  dream 
at  night, 

But  a  dream  was  all  he  had. 

Work,  work  in   the  light  o'  th'   rosy 

morns, 

Work,  work  in  the  dusky  eves  ; 
For  now  they  must  plough,  and  now 

they  must  plant, 

And  now  they  must  bind  the  sheaves. 
And  far  away  was  the  holiday 
All  under  the  Christmas  leaves. 

For  still  it  brought  the  same  old  cry, 

If  he  would  rest  or  play, 
Some  other  week,  or  month,  or  year, 

But  not  now  —  not  to-day  ! 
Nor  feast,   nor  flower,  for  th'  passing 
hour, 

But  all  for  the  far  away. 

PART  III. 

Now  Christmas  came,  and  Gregory 
With  the  dawn  was  broad  awake  ; 

But  there  was  the  crumple  cow  to  milk, 
And  there  was  the  cheese  to  make  ; 

And  so  it  was  noon  ere  he  went  to  the 

town 
To  buy  the  Christmas  cake. 

"  You  '11  leave  your  warm,  new  coat  at 
home, 

And  keep  it  fresh  and  bright 
To  wear,"  the  careful  old  man  said, 

"  When  you  come  back  to-night." 


164 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  CARY. 


"Aye,"  answered  the  lad,  for  his  heart 

was  glad, 
And  he  whistled  out  o'  their  sight. 

The  frugal  couple  sat  by  the  fire 

And  talked  the  hours  away, 
Turning  over  the  years  like  leaves 

To  the  friends  of  their  wedding-day  — 
Saying  who  was  wed,  and  who  was  dead, 

And  who  was  growing  gray. 

And  so  at  last  the  day  went  by, 

As,  somehow,  all  days  will ; 
And  when  the  evening  winds  began 

To  blow  up  wild  and  shrill, 
They  looked  to  see  if  their  Gregory 

Were  coming  across  the  hill. 

They  saw  the  snow-cloud  on  the  sky, 
With  its  rough  and  ragged  edge, 

And  thought  of  the  river  running  high, 
And  thought  of  the  broken  bridge ; 

But  they  did  not  see  their  Gregory 
Keeping  his  morning's  pledge  ! 

The  old  wife  rose,  her  fear  to  hide, 

And  set  the  house  aright, 
But    oft    she    paused    at    the   window 
side, 

And  looked  out  on  the  night. 
The  candles  fine,  they  were  all  a-shine, 

But  they  could  not  make  it  light. 

The  very  clock  ticked  mournfully, 
And  the  cricket  was  not  glad, 

And  to  the  old  folks  sitting  alone, 
The  time  was,  oh  !  so  sad  ; 

For  the  Christmas  light,  it  lacked  that 

night 
The  cheeks  of  their  little  lad. 

The  winds  and  the  woods  fall  wrestling 

now, 
And  they   cry,  as   the   storm   draws 

near, 
"  If  Gregory  were  but  home  alive, 

He  should  not  work  all  this  year  !  " 
For  they  saw  him  dead  in  the  river's 

bed. 
Through  the  surges  of  their  fear. 

Of  ghosts  that  walk  o'  nights  they  tell  — 
A  sorry  Christmas  theme  — 

And  of  signs  and  tokens  in  the  air, 
And  of  many  a  warning  dream, 

Till  the  bough  at  the  pane  through  th' 

sleet  and  rain 
Drags  like  a  corpse  in  a  stream. 


There  was  the  warm,  new  coat  unworn, 
And  the  flute  of  straw  unplayed  ; 

And  these  were  dreadfuller  than  ghosts 
To  make  their  souls  afraid, 

As  the  years  that  were  gone  came  one 

by  one, 
And  their  slights  before  them  laid. 

The    Easter   days   and    the   Christmas 

clays 

Bereft  of  their  sweet  employ, 
And  working  and  waiting  through  them 

all 

Their  little  pale-eyed  boy, 
Looking  away  to  the  holiday 

That  should  bring  the  promised  joy. 

"  God's  mercy  on  us  !  "  cried  they  both, 
"  We  have  been  so  blind  and  deaf ; 

And  justly  are  our  gray  heads  bowed 
To  the  very  grave  with  grief." 

But  hark  !  is  't  the  rain  that  taps  at  the 

pane, 
Or  the  fluttering,  falling  leaf  ? 

Nay,  fluttering  leaf,  nor  snow,  nor  rain, 

However  hard  they  strive, 
Can  make  a  sound  so  sweet  and  soft, 

Like  a  bee's  wing  in  the  hive. 
Joy  !  joy  !  oh  joy  !  it  is  their  boy  ! 

Safe,  home,  in  their  arms  alive ! 

Ah,  never  was  there  pair  so  rich 

As  they  that  night,  I  trow, 
And  never  a  lad  in  all  the  world 

With  a  merrier  pipe  to  blow, 
Nor    Christmas    light    that    shone    so 
bright 

At  midnight  on  the  snow. 


NOVEMBER. 

THE  leaves  are  fading  and  falling, 
The  winds  are  rough  and  wild, 

The  birds  have  ceased  their  calling, 
But  let  me  tell  you,  my  child, 

Though  day  by  day,  as  it  closes, 
Doth  darker  and  colder  grow, 

The  roots  of  the  bright  red  roses 
Will  keep  alive  in  the  snow. 

And  when  the  winter  is  over, 
The  boughs  will  get  new  leaves, 

The  quail  come  back  to  the  clover, 
And  the  swallow  back  to  the  eaves. 


FOEilTS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


I65 


The  robin  will  wear  on  his  bosom 
A  vest  that  is  bright  and  new, 

And  the  loveliest  way-side  blossom 
Will  shine  with  the  sun  and  dew. 

The  leaves  to-day  are  whirling. 
The  brooks  are  all  dry  and  dumb, 

But  let  me  tell  you,  my  darling, 
The  spring  will  be  sure  to  come. 

There  must  be  rough,  cold  weather, 
And  winds  and  rains  so  wild  ; 

Not  all  good  things  together 
Come  to  us  here,  my  child. 

So,  when  some  dear  joy  loses 
Its  beauteous  summer  glow, 

Think  how  the  roots  of  the  roses 
Are  kept  alive  in  the  snow. 


MAKE-BELIEVE. 

ALL  upon  a  summer  day, 

Seven  children,  girls  and  boys, 

Raking  in  the  meadow  hay, 

Waked  the  echoes  with  their  noise. 

You  must  know  them  by  their  names 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Benjamin  and  Susan  James, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary. 

Then  a  child,  so  very  small, 
She  was  only  come  for  play  — 
Little  Miss  Matilda  May, 

And  you  havejthem  one  and  all. 

'T  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  — 
Seven  girls  and  boys  together 

Raking  in  the  summer  weather, 
Merry  as  they  well  could  be  ! 

But  one  lad  that  we  must  own 
Many  a  lad  has  represented. 
Doing  well,  was  not  contented 

To  let  well  enough  alone  ! 

This  was  Master  Benny  James, 
Brother,  you  will  see,  to  Sue, 

If  you  glance  along  the  names 
As  I  set  them  down  for  you. 

Out  he  spoke  —  this  Benjnmin  — 
Standing  with  his  lazy  back 
Close  against  a  fragrant  stack. 

Out  and  up  he  spoke,  and  then 


Called  with  much  ado  and  noise 

All  the  seven  girls  and  boys 
From  their  raking  in  the  hay  — 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Sister  Sue  and  Tilly  May, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary. 

Two  by  two,  and  one  by  one 

Turned  upon  their  work  their  backs, 
And  with  skip,  and  hop,  and  run 

In  and  out  among  the  stacks, 

Came  with  faces  flushed  and  red 
As  the  flowers  along  the  glen, 
And  began  to  question  Ben, 

Who  made  answer  back,  and  said  — 
Speaking  out  so  very  loud  — 
Holding  up  his  head  so  proud, 
As  he  leaned  his  lazy  back 
Close  against  the  fragrant  stack  :     . 

"  Listen  will  you,  girls  and  boys  ! 
This  is  what  I  have  to  say  — 
I  've  invented  a  new  play  !  " 
Then  they  cried  with  merry  noise  — 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  Ben  !  " 

And  he  answered  —  "  First  of  all, 
All  we  boys,  or  large  or  small, 

Must  pretend  that  we  are  men  ! 

"  And  you  girls,  Fan,  Sue,  and  Molly, 
Must  pretend  that  you  're  birds. 
And  must  chirp  and  sing  your  words — 

Never  was  there  play  so  jolly  ! 

"  I  'm  to  be  called  Captain  Gray, 
And,  of  course,  the  rest  of  you 

All  must  do  as  I  shall  say." 
Here  he  called  his  sister  Sue, 
Telling  her  she  must  be  blue, 

And  must  answer  to  her  name 

When  the  call  of  Bluebird  came. 

Fanny  Field  must  be  a  Jay, 

And  the  rest  —  no  matter  what  — 
Anything  that  they  were  not ! 

Mary  might  be  Tilly  May, 
And  Matilda,  as  for  her, 
She  might  be  a  Grasshopper  ! 

All  cried  out,  "  Oh,  what  a  play  !  " 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Susy  James  and  Tilly  May, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary. 

Here  Ben  said  he  was  not  Ben 
Any  more,  but  Captain  Gray  ! 

And  gave  order  first —  "  My  men, 
Forward  !  march  !  and  rake  the  hay  ! " 


1 66 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   CARY. 


Then  he  told  his  sister  Sue 
She  must  go  and  do  the  same, 

But,  forgetting  she  was  blue, 
Called  her  by  her  proper  name. 

Loud  enough  laughed  Susan  then, 
And  declared  she  would  not  say 
Any  longer  Captain  Gray, 

But  would  only  call  him  Ben  ! 

This  was  such  a  dreadful  falling 

Ben  got  angry,  and  alas, 
Made  the  matter  worse,  by  calling 

Little  Tilly,  Hoppergrass  ! 

Fanny  Field,  he  did  make  out 
To  call  Jay-bird,  once  or  twice, 

And,  in  turn,  she  flew  about, 
Chirping  very  wild  and  nice. 

Once  she  tried  to  make  a  wing, 
Holding  wide  her  linsey  gown, 
And  went  flapping  up  and  down, 

Laughing  so  she  could  n't  sing. 

But  the  captain  to  obey 
When  he  called  her  Tilly  May, 

Was  too  hard  for  Mary, 
And  Matilda  —  praise  to  her  — 
Could  not  play  the  grasshopper, 
But  in  honesty  of  heart, 
Quite  forgetful  of  her  part, 

Spoke  to  John  M'Clary  ! 

Thus  the  hay-making  went  on, 
Very  bad  and  very  slow  — 

All  the  worse  that  Joe  and  John 
Now  were  Mister  John  and  Joe  ! 

Work  is  work,  and  play  is  play,      * 
And  the  two  will  not  be  one  ; 

Therefore  half  the  meadow-hay 
Lay  unraked  at  set  of  sun. 

Then  the  farmer  who  had  hired 
All  the  seven  girls  and  boys, 

Being  out  of  heart,  and  tired 

With  no  work  and  much  of  noise, 

Came  upon  them  all  at  once, 
And  made  havoc  of  their  play. 

Calling  Benjamin  a  dunce, 
In  the  stead  of  Captain  Gray ! 

So  to  make  excuse,  in  part, 
For  the  unraked  field  of  hay, 

Tilly  • —  bless  her  honest  heart !  — 
Up  and  told  about  the  play. 


How  that  Benny,  discontented 
With  the  work  of  raking  hay, 

Of  his  own  head  had  invented 
Such  a  pretty,  pretty  play  ! 

"  Benny  calls  it  Make-believe  !  " 
Tilly  said,  with  cheeks  aglow, 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  to  deceive, 

But  to  make  things  fine,  you  know  ?  " 

Then  she  said,  that  he  might  see 
Just  how  charming  it  must  be, 
"  Fanny  Field,  sir,  is  a  jay, 

And  her  sister  Mary, 
Is  myself,  Matilda  May, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary, 
Mister  Joe  and  Mister  John  — 
Sue  a  bluebird  and  so  on 
Up  to  lofty  Captain  Gray. 
Oh  it  is  the  funniest  play  ! 
Would  n't  you  like  to  play  it,  sir  ? 
I  was  just  a  grasshopper, 
But  I  could  n't  play  my  part  ! 

Hopping,  I  was  sure  to  fall  — 
Somehow,  't  was  not  in  my  heart, 

But  't  was  very  nice,  for  all  !  " 

Looking  in  the  farmer's  eyes, 
All  a-tiptoe  stood  the  child  ; 

Half  in  kindliness  he  smiled, 
Half  in  pitiful  surprise. 

Then  he  said,  "  My  little  friends," 
Calling  one  by  one  their  names, 

Fanny  Field  and  Mary, 
Benjamin  and  Susan  James, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary, 
And  Matilda  —  "  Life's  great  ends 

Are  not  gained  by  make-believe. 

"  This  you  all  must  learn  at  length, 
Lies  are  weak  and  truth  is  strong, 
And  as  much  as  you  deceive, 

Just  so  much  you  lose  of  strength  — 
Right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong. 

"  If 't  is  hay  you  want  to  make, 
Mind  this,  every  one  of  you  ! 

You  must  call  a  rake,  a  rake, 
And  must  use  it  smartly,  too. 

"  Oh,  be  honest  through  and  through  ! 
Cherish  truth  until  it  grows, 
And  through  all  your  being  shows 

Like  the  sunshine  in  the  dew  ! 

"Using  power  is  getting  power  — 
He  that  giveth  seldom  lacks, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


I67 


Doing  right,  wrong  done  retrieves." 
Then  the  children  turned  their  backs 

On  their  foolish  make-believes. 

And  in  just  a  single  hour 

Filled  the  meadow  full  of  stacks  ! 

And  as  home  they  went  that  night, 
Each  and  all  had  double  pay 
For  the  raking  of  that  hay, 

And  the  best  pay  was  delight. 

And  I  think  without  a  doubt, 

If  they  lived  they  all  became 
Wiser  women,  wiser  men 
For  the  lesson  learned  that  day. 
Simple-hearted  Tilly  May, 
Fanny  Field  aud  Mary, 

Susan  James  and  Benjamin, 

Joe  and  John  M'Clary, 
Leaving  in  their  lives  the  game 

Of  the  make-believing  out  ; 
Yes,  I  think  so,  without  doubt. 


A   NUT   HARD   TO   CRACK. 

SAYS  John  to  his  mother,  "  Look  here  ! 

look  here  ! 

For  my  brain  is  on  the  rack  — 
I  have  gotten  a  nut  as  smooth  to  the 

sight 
As  the  shell  of  an  egg,  and  as  fair  and 

white, 

Except  for  a  streak  of  black. 
Why  tint  should  mar  it  I  can't   make 

clear." 

And  Johnny's  mother  replied,  "  My  dear, 
Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 

John,  calling  louder,  "  Look  here  !  look 

here  ! 

I  want  to  get  on  the  track, 
And   trace   the   meaning,   for   never   a 

nut 
Had  outside  fairer  than  this  one,  but 

For  this  ugly  streak  of  black  ! 
I  can't  for  my  life  its  use  make  clear." 
And   Johnny's    mother   replied,    "  My 

dear, 
Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 

Then   John,    indignant,    "  Look*  here  ! 

look  here  !  " 

And  he  gave  the  hammer  a  thwack  ; 
&nd  there  was  the  nut  quite  broke  in 

two, 


And    all   across   it,    and   through    and 

through, 

The  damaging  streak  of  black  ! 
"  It  grew   with    his   growth/'    he   says, 

"  that 's  clear, 
But  why  !  "     And   his  mother  replied, 

"  My  dear, 
That  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 

Then  John,  in  anger,  "  Look  here  !  look 
here  ! 

You  may  have  your  wisdom  back. 
The  nut  is  cracked  —  broke  all  to  splint, 
But  it  does  n't  give  me, even  a  hint 

Toward  showing  why  the  black 
Should  spoil  the  else  sweet  meat."    "  My 

dear," 
Says  Johnny's  mother,  "  it 's  very  clear 

Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 

"  For,  John,  whichever  way  we  steer, 

There  is  evil  on  our  track  ; 
And  whence  it  came,  or  how  it  fell, 
No  wisest  man  of  all  can  tell. 

We  only  know  that  black 
Is  mixed  with  white,  and  pain  with  bliss, 
So  all  that  I  can  say  is  this, 

Your  nut  will  be  hard  to  crack." 


HIDE  AND   SEEK. 

As  I  sit  and  watch  at  the  window-pane 
The  light  in  the  sunset  skies, 

The  pictures  rise  in  my  heart  and  brain 
As  the  stars  do  in  the  skies. 

Among  the  rest,  doth  rise  and  pass, 
With  the  blue  smoke  curling  o'er, 

The  house  I  was  born  in,  with  the  gras? 
And  roses  round  the  door. 

I  see  the  well-sweep,  rough  and  brown, 
And  I  hear  the  creaking  tell 

Of  the  bucket  going  up  and  down 
On  the  stony  sides  of  the  well. 

I  see  the  cows,  by  the  water-side  — 
Red  Lily,  and  Pink,  and  Star,  — 

And  the  oxen  with  their  horns  so  wide, 
Close  locked  in  playful  war. 

I  see  the  field  where  the  mowers  stand 
In  the  clover-flowers,  knee-deep  ; 

And  the   one  with   his   head   upon  his 

hand, 
In  the  locust-shade  asleep. 


1 68 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


I  see  beneath  his  shady  brim, 

The  heavy  eyelids  sealed, 
And  the  mowers  stopping  to  look  at  him, 

As  they  mow  across  the  field. 

I  hear  the  bluebird's  twit-te-tweet ! 

And  the  robin's  whistle  blithe  ; 
And  then  I  see  him  spring  to  his  feet, 

And  take  up  his  shining  scythe. 

I  see  the  barn  with  the  door  swung  out, — 
Still  dark  with  its  mildew  streak,  — 

And    the   stacks,   and    the   bushes   all 

about, 
Where  we  played  at  Hide  and  Seek  ! 

I  see  and  count  the  rafters  o'er, 
'Neath  which  the  swallow  sails, 

And  I  see  the  sheaves  on  the  threshing- 
floor, 
And  the  threshers  with  the  flails. 

I  hear  the  merry  shout  and  laugh 
Of  the  careless  boys  and  girls, 

As  the  wind-mill  drops  the  golden  chaff, 
Like  sunshine  in  their  curls. 

The  shadow  of  all  the  years  that  stand 
'Twixt  me  and  my  childhood's  day, 

I  strip  like  a  glove  from  off  my  hand, 
And  am  there  with  the  rest  at  play. 

Out  there,  half  hid  in  its  leafy  screen, 

I  can  see  a  rose-red  cheek, 
And  up  in   the    hay-mow  I   catch   the 
sheen 

Of  the  darling  head  1  seek. 

Just  where  that  whoop  was  smothered 
low, 

I  have  seen  the  branches  stir  ; 
It  is  there  that  Margaret  hides,  I  know, 

And  away  I  chase  for  her  ! 

And  now  with  curls  that  toss  so  wide 
They  shade  his  eyes  like  a  brim, 

Runs  Dick  for  a  safer  place  to  hide, 
And  I  turn  and  chase  for  him  ! 

And  rounding  close  by  the  jutting  stack, 
Where  it  hangs  in  a  rustling  sheet, 

In  spite  of  the  body  that  presses  back, 
I  espy  two  tell-tale  feet  ! 

Now  all  at  once  with  a  reckless  shout, 
Alphonse  from  his  covert  springs, 

And  whizzes  by,  with  his  elbows  out, 
Like  a  pair  of  sturdy  wings. 


Then  Charley  leaps  from  the  cattle-rack, 
And  spins  at  so  wild  a  pace, 

The  grass  seems  fairly  swimming  back 
As  he  shouts,  "  I  am  home  !  Base  ! 
Base  !  " 

While  modest  Mary,  shy  as  a  nun, 
Keeps  close  by  the  grape-vine  wall, 

And  waits,  and  waits,  till  our  game  is 

done, 
And  never  is  found  at  all 

But  suddenly,  at  my  crimson  pane, 
The  lights  grow  dim  and  die, 

And  the  pictures  fade  from   my  heart 

and  brain, 
As  the  stars  do  from  the  sky. 

The  bundles  slide  from  the  threshing- 
floor, 

And  the  mill  no  longer  whirls, 
And  I  find  my  playmates  now  no  more 

By  their  shining' cheeks  and  curls. 

I  call  them  far,  and  I  call  them  wide, 
From  the  prairie,  and  over  the  sea, 

"  Oh  why  do  you  tarry,  and  where  do 

you  hide  ? " 
But  they  may  not  answer  me. 

God  grant  that  when  the  sunset  sky 
Of  my  life  shall  cease  to  glow, 

I  may  find  them  waiting  me  on  high, 
As'  I  waited  them  below. 


THREE   BUGS. 

THREE  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  room  for  two  ! 

And  one  was  yellow,  and  one  was  black, 

And  one  like  me,  or  you. 

The  space  was  small,  no  doubt,  for  all ; 

But  what  should  three  bugs  do  ? 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  crumbs  for  'two  ; 

And  all  were  selfish  in  their  hearts, 

The  same  as  I  or  you  ; 

So  the  strong  ones  said,  "  We  will  eat 

the  bread, 
And  that  is  what  we  '11  do." 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 
And  the  beds  but  two  would  hold  ; 
So  they  all  three  fell  to  quarreling  — 
The  white,  and  the  black,  and  the  gold  ; 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


169 


And  two  of  the  bugs  got  under  the  rugs, 
And  one  was  out  in  the  cold  ! 

So  he  that  was  left  in  the  basket, 
Without  a  crumb  to  chew, 
Or  a  thread  to  wrap  himself  withal, 
When  the  wind  across  him  blew, 
Pulled  one  of  the  rugs  from  one  of  the 

bugs, 
And  so  the  quarrel  grew  ! 

And  so  there  was  war  in  the  basket, 

Ah,  pity,  't  is,  't  is  true  ! 

But  he  that  was  frozen  and  starved  at 

last, 

A  strength  from  his  weakness  drew, 
And  pulled  the  rugs  from  both  of  the 

bugs, 
And  killed  and  ate  them,  too  ! 

Now,  when  bugs  live  in  a  basket. 
Though  more  than  it  well  can  hold, 
It  seems  to  me  they  had  better  agree  — 
The  white,  and  the  black,  and  the  gold  — 
And  share  what  comes  of  the  beds  and 

crumbs, 
And  leave  no  bug  in  the  cold  ! 


WAITING  FOR  SOMETHING  TO 
TURN  UP. 

"AND  why  do  you   throw  down   your 

hoe  by  the  way 

As  if  that  furrow  were  done  ?  " 
It  was  the  good  farmer,  Bartholomew 

Grey, 
That  spoke  on  this  wise  to  his  son. 

Now  Barty,  the  younger,  was  not  very 

bad, 

.  But  he  didn't  take  kindly  to  work, 
And  the  father  had  oftentimes  said  of 

.the  lad 

That   the   thing   he  did  best  was  to 
shirk  ! 

It  was  early  in  May,   and  a  beautiful 

morn  — 

The  rosebuds  tipt  softly  with  red  — 
The  pea  putting  on  her  white  bloom, 

and  the  corn 
Being  just  gotten  up  out  of  bed. 

And  after  the  first  little  break  of  the 

day 
Had  broadened  itself  on  the  blue, 


The    provident    farmer,    Bartholomew 

Grey, 
Had  driven  afield  through  the  dew. 

His  brown  mare,  Fair  Fanny,  in  collar 

and  harness 

Went  before  him,  so  sturdy  and  stout, 
And  ere  the  sun's  fire  yet  had  kindled 

to  flames, 

They   had  furrowed   the   field  twice 
about. 

And  still  as  they  came  lo  the  southerly 

slope 

He  reined  in  Fair  Fanny,  with  Whoa  ! 
And  gazed  toward  the  homestead,  and 

gazed,  in  the  hope 
Of  seeing  young  Barty  —  but  no  ! 

"  Asleep  yet  ?  "  he  said  —  "  in  a  minute 

the  horn 
That  shall  call  to  the  breakfast,  will 

sound, 
And  all  these  long  rows  of  the  tender 

young  corn 

Left  choking,  and  ploughed  in   the 
ground  !  " 

Now  this  was  the  work,  which  the  far- 
mer had  planned 
For  Barty  —  a  task  kindly  meant, 
To  follow  the  plough,  with  the  hoe  in 

his  hand, 
And  to  set  up  the  stalks  as  he  went. 

But  not  till  the  minutes  to  hours  had 

run, 
And   the   heat    was    aglow  far   and 

wide, 

Did  he  see  his  slow-footed  and  sleepy- 
eyed  son 
A-dragging  his  hoe  by  his  side. 

Midway  of  the  corn  field  he  stopped, 

gaped  around  ; 
"  What  use  is  there  working  ? "  says 

he, 
And  gaying  so,  threw  himself  flat  on  the 

ground 
In  the  shade  of  a  wide-spreading  tree. 

And  this  was  the  time  that  Bartholo- 
mew Grey, 
Fearing  bad  things  might  come  to  the 

worst, 
Drew  rein  on  Fair  Fanny,    the   sweat 

wiped  away, 
And  spoke  as  we  quoted  at  first. 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


He  had  thought  to  have  given  the  lad 

such  a  start 
As  would  bring  him  at  once  to  his 

feet, 
And  he  stood  in  the  furrow,  amazed,  as 

young  Bart, 
Lying  lazy,  and  smiling  so  sweet, 

Replied — "The  world  owes  me  a  liv- 
ing, you  see, 

And  something,  or  sooner  or  late, 
I  'in  certain  as  can  be,  will  turn  up  for 

me, 
And  I  am  contented  to  wait !  " 

"  My  son,"  says  the  farmer,  "  take  this 

to  your  heart, 

For  to  live  in  the  world  is  to  learn, 
The  good  things  that  turn  np  are  for 

the  most  part 
The  things  we  ourselves  help  to  turn  ! 

"  So  boy,  if  you  want  to  be  sure  of  your 

bread 
Ere   the   good   time    of  working    is 

gone, 
Brush  the  cobwebs  of  nonsense  all  out 

of  your  head, 
And  take  up  your  hoe,  and  move  on  !  " 


SUPPOSE. 

How  dreary  would  the  meadows  be 
In  the  pleasant  summer  light, 

Suppose  there  was  n't  a  bird  to  sing. 
And  suppose  the  grass  was  white  ! 

And  dreary  would  the  garden  be, 

With  all  its  flowery  trees, 
Suppose  there  were  no  butterflies, 

And  suppose  there  were  no  bees. 

And  what  would  all  the  beauty  be, 
And  what  the  song  that  cheers, 

Suppose  we  had  n't  any  eyes, 
And  suppose  we  had  n't  ears  ? 

4 

For    though    the   grass   were    gay  and 
green. 

And  song-birds  filled  the  glen, 
And  the  air  were  purple  with  butterflies, 

What  good  would  they  do  us  then  ? 

Ah,  think  of  it,  my  little  friends  ; 

And  when  some  pleasure  flies, 
Why,  let  it  go,  and  still  be  glad 

That  you  have  your  ears  and  eyes. 


A  GOOD   RULE. 

A  FARMER,  who  owned  a  fine  orchard, 
one  day 

Went  out  with  his  sons  to  take  a  sur- 
vey, 

The  time  of  the  year  being  April  or 
May. 

The  buds  were  beginning  to  break  into 

bloom, 
The  air  all  about  him  was  rich  with 

perfume, 
And  nothing,  at  first,  waked  a  feeling  of 

gloom. 

But  all  at  once,  going  from  this  place 

to  that, 
He  shaded  his  eyes  with  the  brim  of 

his  hat, 
Saying,  "  Here  is  a  tree  dying  out,  that 

is  flat !  " 

He  called  his   sons,  Joseph  and  John, 

and  said  he, 
"  This   sweeting,   you    know,   was   my 

favorite  tree  — 
Just  look  at  the  top  now,  and  see  what 

you  see  ! 

"  The  blossoms  are  blighted,  and,  sure 

as 'you  live, 
It  won't   have  a   bushel  of  apples   to 

give  ! 
What  ails  it  ?  the  rest  of  the  trees  seem 

to  thrive. 

"  Run,   boys,   bring   hither  your  tools, 

and  don't  stop, 
But   take  every  branch  that  is  falling 

alop, 
And  saw  it  out  quickly,  from  bottom  to 

top  !  " 

"  Yes,  father,"  they  said,  and  away  they 

both  ran  — 
For  they  always  said  father,  and  never 

old  man, 
And  for  rny  part  I  don't  see  how  good 

children  can. 

And  before  a  half  hour  of  the  morning 

was  gone, 
They  were  back  in  the  orchard,  both 

Joseph  and  John, 
And    presently  all   the   dead   branches 

were  sawn. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


171 


u  Well,  boys,"  said  the  farmer, "I  think, 

for  my  share, 
If  the  rain  and  the  sunshine  but  second 

our  care, 
The  old  sweeting  yet  will  be  driven  to 

bear ! " 

And  so  when  a  month,  may  be  more, 

had  gone  by, 
And  borne  out  the  June,  and  brought 

in  the  July, 
He  came  back  the  luck  of  the  pruning 

to  try. 

And  lo  !  when  the  sweeting  was  reached, 

it  was  found 
That    windfalls    enough    were    strewn 

over  the  ground, 
But   never  an  apple  all   blushing   and 

sound. 

Then  the  farmer  said,  shaping  his  mo- 
tions to  suit, 

First  up  to  the  boughs  and  then  down 
to  the  fruit, 

"  Come  Johnny,  come  Joseph,  and  dig 
to  the  root !  '\ 

And  straightway  they  came  with  their 
spades  and  their  hoes, 

And  threw  off  their  jackets,  and  shout- 
ing, "  Here  goes  !  " 

They  digged  down  and  down  with  the 
sturdiest  blows. 

And,  by  and  by,  Joseph  his  grubbing- 

hoe  drew 
From  the  earth  and  the  roots,  crying, 

"Father,  look  !  do  ! '' 
And  he  pointed  his  words  with  the  toe 

of  his  shoe  ! 

And  the  farmer  said,  shaping  a  gesture 

to  suit, 
"  I  see  why  our  sweeting  has  brought 

us  no  fruit  — 
There  's  a  worm  sucking  out  all  the  sap 

at  the  root !  " 

Then    John    took    his    spade    with    an 

awful  grimace, 
And    lifted    the  ugly  thing   out   of    its 

place, 
And  put  the  loose  earth  back  in  very 

short  space. 

And  when  the  next  year  came,  it  only 
is  fair 


To  say,  that  the  sweeting  rewarded  the 

care, 
And   bore  them   good   apples,  enough 

and  to  spare. 

And  now,  my  djear  children,  whenever 

you  see 
A  life  that  is  profitless,  think  of  that 

tree; 
For  ten  chances  to  one,  you  '11  find  there 

will  be 

Some  habit  of  evil  indulged  day  by  day, 
And  hid  as  the  earth-worm  was  hid  in 

the  clay, 
That  is  steadily  sapping  the  life-blood 

away. 

The  fruit,  when  the  blossom  is  blighted, 

will  fall ; 
The  sin  will  be  searched  out,  no  matter 

how  small  ; 
So,  what  you  're  ashamed  to  do,  don't 

do  at  all. 


TO  MOTHER   FAIRIE. 

GOOD  old  mother  Fairie, 

Sitting  by  your  fire, 
Have  you  any  little  folk 

You  would  like  to  hire? 

I  want  no  chubby  drudges 
To  milk,  and  churn,  and  spin, 

Nor  old  and  wrinkled  Brownies, 
With  grisly  beards,  and  thin  : 

But  patient  little  people, 

With  hands  of  busy  care, 
And  gentle  speech,  and  loving  hearts  ; 

Say,  have  you  such  to  spare  ? 

I  know  a  poor,  pale  body, 

Who  cannot  sleep  at  night, 
And  I  want  the  little  people 

To  keep  her  chamber  bright ; . 

To  chase  away  the  shadows 

That  make  her  moan  and  weep, 

To  sing  her  loving  lullabies, 
And  kiss  her  eyes  asleep. 

And  when  in  dreams  she  reaches 
For  pleasures  dead  and  gone, 

To  hold  her  wasted  fingers, 
And  make  the  rings  stay  on. 


1/2 


THE  POEMS   OF  ALICE   GARY. 


They  must  be  very  cunning 

To  make  the  future  shine 
Like  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  strawber- 
ries, 

A -growing  on  one  vine. 

Good  old  mother  Fairie, 

Since  my  need  you  know, 
Tell  me,  have  you  any  folk 

Wise  enough  to  go  ? 


BARBARA  .BLUE. 

THERE  was  an  old  woman 
Named  Barbara  Blue, 

But  not  the  old  woman 
Who  lived  in  a  shoe, 

And  did  n't  know  what 
With  her  children  to  do. 

For  she  that  I  tell  of 

Lived  all  alone, 
A  miserly  creature 

As  ever  was  known, 
And  had  never  a  chick 

Or  child  of  her  own. 

She  kept  very  still, 

Some  said  she  was  meek  ; 
Others  said  she  was  only 

Too  stingy  to  speak  ; 
That  her  little  dog  fed 

On  one  bone  for  a  week  ! 

She  made  apple-pies, 

And  she  made  them  so  tart 
That  the  mouths  of  the  children 

Who  ate  them  would  smart ; 
And  these  she  went  peddling 

About  in  a  cart. 

One  day,  on  her  travels, 
She  happened  to  meet 

A  farmer,  who  said 

He  had  apples  so  sweet 

That  all  the  town's-people 
Would  have  them  to  eat. 

"  And  how  do  you  sell  them  ? " 

Says  Barbara  Blue. 
"Why,  if  you  want  only 

A  bushel  or  two," 
Says  the  farmer,  "  I  don't  mind 

To  give  them  to  you." 

"  What !  give  me  a  bushel  ? " 
Cries  Barbara  Blue, 


"  A  bushel  of  apples, 
And  sweet  apples,  too  !  " 

"  Be  sure,"  says  the  farmer, 
"  Be  sure,  ma'am,  I  do." 

And  then  he  said  if  she 

Would  give  him  a  tart 
(  She  had  a  great  basket  full 

There  in  her  cart ), 
He  would  show  her  the  orchard, 

And  then  they  would  part. 

So  she  picked  out  a  little  one, 

Burnt  at  the  top, 
And  held  it  a  moment, 

And  then  let  it  drop, 
And  then  said  she  had  n't 

A  moment  to  stop, 
And  drove  her  old  horse 

Away,  hippity  hop ! 

One  night  when  the  air  was 
All  blind  with  the  snow, 

Dame  Barbara,  driving 
So  soft  and  so  slow 

That  the  farmer  her  whereabouts 
Never  would  know, 

Went  after  the  apples ; 

And  avarice  grew 
When  she  saw  their  red  coats, 

Till,  before  she  was  through, 
She  took  twenty  bushels, 

Instead  of  the  two  ! 

She  filled  the  cart  full, 
And  she  heaped  it  a-top, 

And  if  just  an  apple 

Fell  off,  she  would  stop, 

And  then  drive  ahead  again, 
Hippity  hop  ! 

Her  horse  now  would  stumble, 
And  now  he  would  fall, 

And  where  the  high  river-bank 
Sloped  like  a  wall, 

Sheer  down,  they  went  over  it, 
Apples  and  all ! 


TAKE  CARE. 

LITTLE  children,  you  must  seek 
Rather  to  be  good  than  wise, 

For  the  thoughts  you  do  not  speak 
Shine  out  in  your  cheeks  and  eyes, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN, 


173 


If  you  think  that  you  can  be 
Cross  or  cruel,  and  look  fair, 

Let  me  tell  you  how  to  see 
You  are  quite  mistaken  there. 

Go  and  stand  before  the  glass, 
And  some  ugly  thought  contrive, 

And  my  word  will  come  to  pass 
Just  as  sure  as  you  're  alive  ! 

What  you  have,  and  what  you  lack, 
All  the  same  as  what  you  wear, 

You  will  see  reflected  back  ; 
So,  my  little  folks,  take  care  ! 

And  not  only  in  the  glass 

Will  your  secrets  come  to  view  ; 

All  beholders,  as  they  pass, 

Will  perceive  and  know  them  too. 

Goodness  shows  in  blushes  bright, 
Or  in  eyelids  dropping  down, 

Like  a  violet  from  the  light ; 
Badness,  in  a  sneer  or  frown. 

Out  of  sight,  my  boys  and  girls, 
Every  root  of  beauty  starts  ; 

So  think  less  about  your  curls, 

More  about  your  minds  and  hearts. 

Cherish  what  is  good,  and  drive 
Evil  thoughts  and  feelings  far  ; 

For,  as  sure  as  you  're  alive, 
You  will  show  for  what  you  are. 


THE  GRATEFUL   SWAN. 

ONE  day,  a  poor  peddler, 

Who  carried  a  pack, 
Felt  something  come 

Flippity-flop  on  his  back. 

He  looked  east  and  west, 

He  turned  white,  he  turned  red, 

Then  bent  his  back  lower, 
And  traveled  ahead. 

The  sun  was  gone  down 
When  he  entered  his  door, 

And  loosened  the  straps 

From  his  shoulders  once  more. 

Then  up  sprang  his  wife, 

Crying,  "  Bless  your  heart,  John, 


Here,  sitting  atop  of  your  pack. 
Is  a  swan. 

"  A  wing  like  a  lily, 

A  beak  like  a  rose  ; 
Now  good  luck  go  with  her 

Wherever  she  goes  !  " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  cried  the  peddler, 
"  What  fullness  of  crop  ! 

No  wonder  I  felt  her 
Come  flippity-flop  ! 

"  I  '11  bet  you,  good  wife, 
All  the  weight  of  my  pack, 

I  've  carried  that  bird 

For  ten  miles  on  my  back  !  " 

"  Perhaps,"  the  wife  answered, 
"  She  '11  lay  a  gold  egg 

To  pay  you  ;  but,  bless  me  ! 
She  's  broken  a  leg." 

Then  went  to  the  cupboard, 
And  brought  from  the  shelf 

A  part  of  the  supper 

She  'd  meant  for  herself. 

Of  course  two  such  nurses 

Effected  a  cure ; 
One  leg  stiff,  but  better 

Than  none,  to  be  sure  ! 

"  No  wonder,"  says  John, 
As  she  stood  there  a-lop, 

"  That  I  should  have  felt  her 
Come  flippity-flop  ! " 

Then  straight  to  his  pack 

For  a  bandage  he  ran, 
While  Jannet,  the  good  wife, 

To  splints  broke  her  fan ; 

And,  thinking  no  longer 

About  the  gold  egg, 
All  tenderly  held  her 

And  bound  up  the  leg; 

All  summer  they  lived 

Thus  together  —  the  swan, 

And  peddler  and  peddler's  wife, 
Jannet  and  John. 

At  length,  when  the  leaves 
In  the  garden  grew  brown, 

The  bird  came  one  day 

With  her  head  hanging  down ; 


174 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  told  her  kind  master 

And  mistress  so  dear, 
She  was  going  to  leave  them 

Perhaps  for  a  year. 

"  What  mean  you  ?  "  cried  Jannet, 
"  What  mean  you  ?  "  cried  John, 

"You  will  see,  if  I  ever 

Come  back,"  said  the  swan. 

And  so,  with  the  tears 

Rolling  down,  drip-a-drop, 

She  lifted  her  snowy  wings, 
Flippity-flop  ! 

And  sailed  away,  stretching 

Her  legs  and  her  neck, 
Till  all  they  could  see 

Was  a  little  white  speck. 

Then  Jannet  said,  turning 

Her  eyes  upon  John, 
But  speaking,  no  doubt, 

Of  the  bird  that  was  gone  : 

"  A  wing  like  a  lily, 

A  beak  like  a  rose  ; 
And  good  luck  go  with  her 

Wherever  she  goes  !  " 

The  winter  was  weary, 

But  vanished  at  last, 
As  all  winters  will  do  ; 

And  when  it  was  past, 

And  doffies  beginning 

To  show  their  bright  heads, 

One  day  as  our  Jannet 
Was  making  the  beds  — 

The  beds  in  the  garden, 

I  'd  have  you  to  know, 
She  saw  in  the  distance 

A  speck  white  as  snow. 

She  saw  it  sail  nearer 

And  nearer,  then  stop 
And  land  in  her  garden  path, 

Flippity-flop  ! 

One  moment  of  wonder, 
Then  cried  she,  "  O  John  ! 

As  true  as  you  're  living,  man, 
Here  is  our  swan  ! 

"  And  by  her  sleek  feathers, 
She  comes  from  the  south  ; 


But  what  thing  is  this 

Shining  so  in  her  mouth  ?" 

"  A  diamond  !  "  cried  Johnny ; 

The  swan  nearer  drew, 
And  dropped  it  in  Jannet's 

Nice  apron  of  blue  ; 

Then  held  up  the  mended  leg 

Quite  to  her  crop, 
And  danced  her  great  wings 

About,  flippity-flop  ! 

"  I  never  beheld  such  a  bird 

In  my  life  !  " 
Cried  Johnny,  the  peddler ; 

"  Nor  I  !"  said  his  wife. 


A  SHORT   SERMON. 

CHILDREN,  who  read  my  lay, 
Thus  much  I  have  to  say  : 
Each  day,  and  every  day, 

Do  what  is  right  ! 
Right  things,  in  great  and  small ; 
Then,  though  the  sky  should  fall, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  all, 

You  shall  have  light ! 

This  further  I  would  say  : 
Be  you  tempted  as  you  may,. 
Each  day,  and  every  day, 

Speak  what  is  true  ! 
True  things,  in  great  and  small ; 
Then,  though  the  sky  should  fall, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  all, 

Heaven  would  show  through  ! 

Figs,  as  you  see  and  know, 
Do  not  out  of  thistles  grow  ; 
And,  though  the  blossoms  blow 

White  on  the  tree, 
Grapes  never,  never  yet 
On  the  limbs  of  thorns  were  set ; 
So,  if  you  a  good  would  get, 

Good  you  must  be  ! 

Life's  journey,  through  and  through, 
Speaking  what  is  just  and  true; 
Doing  what  is  right  to  do 

Unto  one  and  all, 

When  you  work  and  when  you  play 
Each  day,  and  every  day  ; 
Then  peace  shall  gild  your  way, 

Though  the  sky  should  fall. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


175 


STORY  OF  A  BLACKBIRD. 

COME,  gather  round  me,  children, 
Who  just  as  you  please  would  do, 

And  hear  me  tell  what  fate  befell, 
A  blackbird  that  I  knew. 

He  lived  one  year  in  our  orchard, 
From  spring  till  fall,  you  see, 

And  swung  and   swung,  and  sung  and 

sung, 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree. 


He  had  a  blood-red  top-knot, 


match 


And  wings  that  were  tipped  to  i 

And  he  held  his  head  as  if  he  said, 

"  I  'm  a  fellow  hard  to  catch  !  " 

And  never  built  himself  a  nest, 

Nor  took  a  mate  —  not  he  ! 
But  swung  and   swung,  and   sung  and 
sung,< 

In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree. 

And  yet,  the  little  bluebird, 

So  modest  and  so  shy, 
Could  beat  him  to  death  with  a  single 
breath, 

If  she  had  but  a  mind  to  try. 

And  the  honest,  friendly  robin, 

That  went  in  a  russet  coat, 
Though  he  was  n't  the  bird  that  sung  to 
be  heard, 

Had  twice  as  golden  a  throat. 

But  robin,  bluebird,  and  all  the  birds, 
Were  afraid  as  they  could  be  ; 

He  looked  so  proud  and  sung  so  loud, 
Atop  of  the  highest  tree. 

We  often  said,  we  children, 

He  only  wants  to  be  seen  ! 
For  his  bosom  set  like  a  piece  of  jet, 

In  the  glossy  leaves  of  green. 

He  dressed  his  feathers  again  and  again, 

Till  the  oil  did  fairly  run, 
And   the   tuft   on   his   head,  of   bright 
blood-red, 

Like  a  ruby  shone  in  the  sun. 

But  summer  lasts  not  always, 

And  the  leaves  they  faded  brown  ; 

And  when  the  breeze  went  over  the 

trees, 
They  fluttered  down  and  down. 


The  robin,  and  wren,  and  bluebird, 
They  sought  a  kindlier  clime  ; 

But  the  blackbird  cried,  in  his  foolish 

pride, 
"  I  Jll  see  my  own  good  time  !  " 

And  whistled,  whistled,  and  whistled, 

Perhaps  to  hide  his  pain  ; 
Until,  one  day,  the  air  grew  gray, 

With  the  slant  of  the  dull,  slow  rain. 

And  then,  wing-tip  and  top-knot, 
They  lost  their  blood-red  shine ; 

Unhoused  to  be,  in  the  top  of  a  tree, 
Was  not  so  very  fine  ! 

At  first  he  cowered  and  shivered, 
And  then  he  ceased  to  sing, 

And  then  he  spread  about  his  head, 
One  drenched  and  dripping  wing. 

And  stiffer  winds  at  sunset, 

Began  to  beat  and  blow  ; 
And    next    daylight    the    ground    was 
white 

With  a  good  inch-depth  of  snow  ! 

And  oh,  for  the  foolish  blackbird, 
That  had  n't  a  house  for  his  head  ! 

The  bitter  sleet  began  at  his  feet 
And  chilled  and  killed  him  dead  ! 

And  the  rabbit,  when  he  saw  him, 
Enrapt  in  his  snowy  shroud, 

Let  drop  his  ears  and  said,  with  tears, 
"  This  comes  of  being  proud." 


FAIRY-FOLK. 

THE  story-books  have  told  you 

Of  the  fairy-folks  so  nice, 
That  make  them  leathern  aprons 

Of  the  ears  of  little  mice  ; 
And  wear  the  leaves  of  roses, 

Like  a  cap  upon  their  heads, 
And  sleep  at  night  on  thistle-down, 

Instead  of  feather  beds  ! 

These  stories,  too,  have  told  you, 

No  doubt  to  your  surprise, 
That  the  fairies  ride  in  coaches 

That  are  drawn  by  butterflies  ; 
And  come  into  your  chambers, 

When  you  are  locked  in  dreams, 
And  right  across  your  counterpanes 

Make  bold  tp  drive  their  teams; 


1/6 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


And  that  they  heap  your  pillows 
With  their  gifts  of  rings  and  pearls 

But  do  not  heed  such  idle  tales, 
My  little  boys  and  girls. 

There  are  no  fairy-folk  that  ride 

About  the  world  at  night, 
Who  give  you  rings  and  other  things, 

To  pay  for  doing  right. 
But  if  you  do  to  others  what 

You  'd  have  them  do  to  you, 
You  '11  be  as  blest  as  if  the  best 

Of  story-books  were  true. 


BURIED   GOLD. 

IN  a  little  bird's-nest  of  a  house, 
About  the  color  of  a  mouse, 

And  low,  and  quaint,  and  square  — 
Twenty  feet,  perhaps,  in  all  — 
With  never  a  chamber  nor  a  hall, 

There  lived  a  queer  old  pair 
Once  on   a   time.     They  are  dead  and 

gone; 
But  in  their  day  their  names  were  John 

And  Emeline  Adair. 

John  used  to  sit  and  take  his  ease, 
With  two  great  patches  at  his  knees, 

And  spectacles  on  his  nose, 
With  a  bit  of  twine  or  other  thread, 
That  met  behind  his  heavy  head 

And  tied  the  big  brass  bows. 

His  jacket  was  a  snuffy  brown, 
His  coat  was  just  a  farmer's  gown, 

That  once  had  been  bright  blue  ; 
But  the  oldest  man  could  hardly  say 
When  it  was  not  less  blue  than  gray, 
It  was  frayed  and  faded  such  a  way, 

And  both  the  elbows  through  ! 

But,  somehow  or  other,  Emeline 
Went  dressed  in  silks  and  laces  fine  ; 

She  was  proud  and  high  of  head, 
And  she  used  to  go,  and  go,  and  go, 
Through  mud  and  mire,  and  rain  and 

snow, 

Visiting  high  and  visiting  low, 
As  idle  gossips  will  you  know  ; 
And  many  a  thing  that  was  n't  so 

She  told,  the  neighbors  said. 

Amongst  the  rest  that  her  husband  John, 

Though  his  gown  was  poor  to  look  upon, 

And  his  trowsers  patched  and  old, 


Had  money  to  spend,  and  money  to 

spare, 

As  sure  as  her  name  was  Mrs.  Adair ; 
And  though  she  said  it,  who  say  it 

should  not, 

Somewhere  back  or  front  of  their  lot, 
He  had  buried  her  iron  dinner-pot, 
A   pewter  pan,  and   she  did  n't  know 

what 
Beside,  chock-full  of  gold  ! 

Well,  by  and  by  her  tongue  got  still, 
That  had  clattered  and  clattered  like  a 

mill, 

Little  for  good,  and  a  good  deal  for  ill, 
Having  all  her  life-time  had  her  will  — 

The  poor  old  woman  died  : 
And  John,  when   he  missed  the  whirl 

and  whir 

Of  her  goosey-gabble,  refused  to  stir, 
But  moped  till  he  broke  his  heart  for 

her  ; 
And  they  laid  him  by  her  side. 

And  lo  !  his  neighbors,  young  and  old, 
Who  had  heard  about  the  pot  of  gold 
Of  which  old  Mrs.  Adair  had  told, 

Got  spades,  and  picks,  and  bars. 
You  would  have  thought,  had  you  seen 

them  dig, 

Sage  and  simple,  little  and  big, 
Up  and  down  and  across  the  lot, 
They  expected  not  only  to  find  the  pot, 

And  the  pan,  but  the  moon  and  stars  ! 

Just  one,  and  only  one  man  stayed 
At  home  and  plied  an  honest  trade, 

Contented  to  be  told 
How  they  digged  down  under  the  shed, 
And  up  and  out  through  the  turnip-bed, 
Turning  every  inch  of  the  lot, 
And  never  finding  sign  of  the  pot 

That  was  buried  full  of  gold  ! 

And  when  ten  years  were  come  and 

gone, 
And  poor  old  Emeline  and  John 

Had  nearly  been  forgot, 
This  careful,  quiet  man  that  stayed 
At  home  and  plied  an  honest  trade, 

Was  the  owner  of  the  lot  — 
Such  luck  to  industry  doth  fall. 
And  he  built  a  house  with  a  stately  hall, 
Full  fifty  feet  from  wall  to  wall  : 

And  the  foolish  ones  were  envious 
That  he  should  be  rewarded  thus 
Upon  the  very  spot 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


177 


Where  they  had  digged  their  strength 

away, 
Day  and  night,  till   their   heads   were 

gray, 

In  search  of  the  pan  and  pot 
Which  Mrs.  Emeline  Adair 
Had  made  believe  were  buried  there, 
As  buried  they  were  not. 


RECIPE  FOR  AN  APPETITE. 

MY  lad,  who  sits  at  breakfast 
With  forehead  in  a  frown, 

Because  the  chop  is  under-done, 
And  the  fritter  over-brown,  — 

Just  leave  your  dainty  mincing, 
And  take,  to  mend  your  fare, 

A  slice  of  golden  sunshine, 
And  a  cup  of  the  morning  air. 

And  when  you  have  eat  and  drunken, 

If  you  want  a  little  fun, 
Throw  by  your  jacket  of  broadcloth, 

And  take  an  up-hill  run. 

And  what  with  one  and  the  other 
You  will  be  so  strong  and  gay, 

That  work  will  be  only  a  pleasure 
Through  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

And  when  it  is  time  for  supper, 
Your  bread  and  miljc  will  be 

As  sweet  as  a  comb  of  honey. 
Will  you  try  my  recipe  ? 


THE  PIG  AND  THE  HEN. 

THE  pig  and  the  hen, 

They  both  got  in  one  pen, 
And  the  hen  said  she  would  n't  go  out. 

"  Mistress  Hen,"  says  the  pig, 

"  Don't  you  be  quite  so  big  !  " 
And   he   gave   her   a   push   with   his 
snout. 

"  You  are  rough,  and  you  're  fat, 
But  who  cares  for  all  that ; 

I  will  stay  if  I  choose,"  says  the  hen. 

"  No,  mistress,  no  longer  !  " 
Says  pig  :  "  I  'm  the  stronger, 

And  mean  to  be  boss  of  my  pen  ! 


Then  the  hen  cackled  out 
Just  as  close  to  his  snout 
As  she  dare  :  "  You  're  an  ill-natured 

brute  ; 

And  if  I  had  the  corn, 
Just  as  sure  as  I  'm  born, 
I    would   send    you    to   starve    or    to 
root ! " 

"  But  you  don't  own  the  cribs  ; 

So  I  think  that  my  ribs 
Will  be  never  the  leaner  for  you  : 

This  trough  is  my  trough, 

And  the  sooner  you  're  off," 
Says  the  pig,  "  why  the   better  you  '11 
do  !  " 

"  You  're  not  a  bit  fair, 

And  you  're  cross  as  a  bear  : 
What  harm  do  I  do  in  your  pen  ? 

But  a  pig  is  a  pig, 

And  I  don't  care  a  fig 
For  the  worst  you  can  say,"  says  the  hen. 

Says  the  pig,  "  You  will  care 

If  I  act  like  a  bear 

And   tear  your  two   wings   from  your 
neck." 

"  What  a  nice  little  pen 

You  have  got !  "  says  the  hen, 
Beginning  to  scratch  and  to  peck. 

Now  the  pig  stood  amazed, 

And  the  bristles,  upraised 
A  moment  past,  fell  clown  so  sleek. 

"  Neighbor  Biddy,"  says  he, 

"  If  you  '11  just  allow  me, 
I  will  show  you  a  nice  place  to  pick  !  " 

So  she  followed  him  off, 
And  they  ate  from  one  trough  — 
They  had  quarreled   for  nothing,  they 

saw  ; 

And  when  they  had  fed, 
"  Neighbor  Hen,"  the  pig  said, 
"  Won't  you  stay  here  and  roost  in  my 
straw  ? " 

"  No,  I  thank  you  ;  you  see 

That  I  sleep  in  a  tree," 
Says  the  hen  ;  "  but  I  must  go  away  ; 

So  a  grateful  good-by." 

"  Make  your  home  in  my  sty," 
Says  the    pig,  "  and    come    in .  every 
day." 

Now  my  child  will  not  miss 
The  true  moral  of  this 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


Little  story  of  anger  and  strife  ; 

For  a  word  spoken  soft 

Will  turn  enemies  oft 
Into  friends   that  will  stay  friends   for 
life. 


SPIDER  AND  FLY. 

ONCE  when  morn  was  flowing  in, 

Broader,  redder,  wider, 
In  her  house  with  walls  so  thin 

That  they  could  not  hide  her, 
Just  as  she  would  never  spin, 

Sat  a  little  spider  — 
Sat  she  on  her  silver  stairs, 
Meek  as  if  she  said  her  prayers. 

Came  a  fly,  whose  wings  had  been 

Making  circles  wider, 
Having  but  the  buzz  and  din 

Of  herself  to  guide  her. 
Nearer  to  these  walls  so  thin, 

Nearer  to  the  spider, 
Sitting  on  her  silver  stairs, 
Meek  as  if  she  said  her  prayers. 

Said  the  silly  fly,  "  Too  long 

Malice  has  belied  her  ; 
How  should  she  do  any  wrong, 

With  no  walls  to  hide  her  ? " 
"So  she  buzzed  her  pretty  song 

To  the  wily  spider, 
Sitting  on  her  silver  stairs 
Meek  as  though  she  said  her  prayers. 

But  in  spite  her  modest  mien, 

Mad  the  fly  but  eyed  her 
Close  enough,  she  would  have  seen 

Fame  had  not  belied  her  — 
That,  as  she  had  always  been, 

She  was  still  a  spider  ; 
And  that  she  was  not  at  prayers, 
Sitting  on  her  silver  stairs. 


A   LESSON  OF  MERCY. 

A  BOY  named  Peter 

Found  once  in  the  road 
All  harmless  and  helpless, 
.  A  poor  little  toad  ; 

And  ran  to  his  playmate, 
And  all  out  of  breath 


Cried,  "  John,  come  and  help, 
And  we  '11  stone  him  to  death  !  " 

And  picking  up  stones, 
The  two  went  on  the  run, 

Saying,  one  to  the  other, 
"  Oh  won't  we  have  fun  ?  " 

Thus  primed  and  all  ready, 
They  'd  got  nearly  back, 

When  a  donkey  came 
Dragging  a  cart  on  the  track. 

Now  the  cart  was  as  much 
As  the  donkey  could  draw, 

And  he  came  with  his  head 
Hanging  down  ;  so  he  saw, 

All  harmless  and  helpless, 

The  poor  little  toad, 
A-taking  his  morning  nap 

Right  in  the  road. 

He  shivered  at  first, 

Then  he  drew  back  his  leg, 
And  set  up  his  ears, 

Never  moving  a  peg. 

Then  he  gave  the  poor  toad, 
With  his  warm  nose  a  dump, 

And  he  woke  and  got  off 
With  a  hop  and  a  jump. 

And  then  with  an  eye 

Turned  on  Peter  and  John, 

And  hanging  his  homely  head 
Down,  he  went  on. 

"  We  can't  kill  him  now,  John," 

Says  Peter,  "that's  flat, 
In  the  face  of  an  eye  and 

An  action  like  that !  " 

"  For  my  part,  I  have  n't 
The  heart  to,"  says  John  ; 

"But  the  load  is  too  heavy 
That  donkey  has  on  : 

"  Let 's  help  him  ;  "  so  both  lads 

Set  off  with  a  will 
And  came  up  with  the  cart 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

And  when  each  a  shoulder 

Had  put  to  the  wheel, 
They  helped  the  poor  donkey 

A  wonderful  deal. 


FO&MS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


179 


When  they  got  to  the  top 
Back  again  they  both  run, 

Agreeing  they  never 
Had  had  better  fun. 


THE    FLOWER   SPIDER.1 

You  'VE  read  of  a  spider,  I  suppose, 
Dear  children,  or  been  told, 

That  has  a  back  as  red  as  a  rose, 
And  legs  as  yellow  as  gold. 

Well,  one  of  these  fine  creatures  ran 
In  a  bed  of  flowers,  you  see, 

Until  a  drop  of  dew  in  the  sun 
Was  hardly  as  bright  as  she. 

Her  two  plump  sides,  they  were   be- 
sprent 

With  speckles  of  all  dyes, 
And  little  shimmering  streaks  were  bent 

Like  rainbows  round  her  eyes. 

Well,  when  she  saw  her  legs  a-shine, 
And  her  back  as  red  as  a  rose, 

She  thought  that  she  herself  was  fine 
Because  she  had  fine  clothes  ! 

Then  wild  she  grew,  like  one  possessed, 

For  she  thought,  upon  my  word, 
That  she  was  n't  a  spider  with  the 


rest, 


And  set  up  for  a  bird  ! 


Aye,  for  a  humming-bird  at  that ! 

And  the  summer  day  all  through, 
With  her  head  in  a  tulip-bell  she  sat, 

The  same  as  the  hum-birds  do. 

She  had  her  little  foolish  day, 
But  her  pride  was  doomed  to  fall, 

And  what  do  you  think  she  had  to  pay 
In  the  ending  of  it  all  ? 

Just  this  :  on  dew  she  could  not  sup, 
And  she  could  not  sup  on  pride, 

And  so,  with  her  head  in  the  tulip  cup, 
She  starved  until  she  died  ! 

For  in  despite  of  the  golden  legs, 
And  the  back  as  red  as  a  rose, 

With  what  is  hatched  from  the  spider's 

eggs 
The  spider's  nature  goes  ! 

1  A  spider  that  lives  among  flowers,  and  takes 
its  color  from  them. 


DAN  AND  DIMPLE,  AND   HOW 
THEY    QUARRELED. 

To  begin,  in  things  quite  simple 
Quarrels  scarcely  ever  fail  — 

And  they  fell  out,  Dan  and  Dimple, 
All  about  a  horse's  tail ! 

So  that  by  and  by  the  quarrel 

Quite    broke    up   and   spoiled   their 

play; 
Danny  said  the  tail  was  sorrel, 

Dimple  said  that  it  was  gray  ! 

"  Gray  ! "   said  Danny,  "  you  are  sim- 
ple !  " 

"  Just  as  gray  as  mother's  shawl !  " 
"  And  that 's  red  !  "     Said  saucy  Dim- 
ple, 
"  You  're  a  fool,  and  that  is  all !  " 

Then  the  sister  and  the  brother  — 
As  indeed  they  scarce  could  fail, 

In  such  anger,  struck  each  other  — 
All  about  the  horse's  tail ! 

"  Red!  "  cried  Dimple,  speaking  loudly, 
"  How  you  play  at  fast  and  loose  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Danny,  still  more  proudly, 
"  When  I  'm  playing  with  a  goose  !  " 

In  between  them  came  the  mother  : 
"  What  is  all  this  fuss  about  ? " 

Then  the  sister  and  the  brother 
Told  the  story,  out  and  out. 

And  she  answered,  "  I  must  label 

Each  of  you  a  little  dunce, 
Since  to  look  into  the  stable 

Would  have  settled  it  at  once  !  " 

Forth  ran  Dan  with  Dimple  after, 
And  full  soon  came  hurrying  back 

Shouting,  all  aglee  with  laughter, 
That  the  horse's  tail  was  black  ! 

So  they  both  agreed  to  profit 
By  the  lesson  they  had  learned, 

And  to  tell  each  other  of  it 
Often  as  the  fit  returned. 


TO  A   HONEY-BEE. 

"  BUSY-BODY,  busy-body, 
Always  on  the  wing, 


1 8o 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE  GARY. 


Wait  a  bit,  where  you  have  lit, 
And  tell  me  why  you  sing." 

Up,  and  in  the  air  again, 

Flap,  flap,  flap  ! 

And  now  she   stops,   and    now  she 
drops 

Into  the  rose's  lap. 

"  Come,  just  a  minute  come, 

From  your  rose  so  red." 
Hum,  hum,  hum,  hum  — 

That  was  all  she  said. 

Busy-body,  busy-body. 

Always  light  and  gay, 
It  seems  to  me,  for  all  I  see, 

Your  work  is  only  play. 

And  now  the  day  is  sinking  to 

The  goldenest  of  eves, 
And  she  doth  creep  for  quiet  sleep 

Among  the  lily-leaves. 

"  Come,  just  a  moment  come, 

From  your  snowy  bed." 
Hum,  hum,  hum,  hum  — 

That  was  all  she  said. 

But,  the  while  I  mused,  I  learned 

The  secret  of  her  way  : 
Do  my  part  with  cheerful  heart, 

And  turn  my  work  to  play. 


AT  THE  TAVERN. 

"  WHAT  'LL  you  have,  John  ? 

Cider  or  gin  ? 
Or  something  stronger  ? 

Walk  right  in. 
Hurry  up,  landlord, 

With  main  and  might, 
And  don't  make  a  thirsty  man 

Wait  all  night ! 

"  Not  any  cider  ? 

And  ale  won't  do. 
A  brandy-smasher,  then, 

Glasses  for  two  ! 
And  mind  you,  landlord, 

Mix  it  strong, 
And  don't  keep  us  waiting  here 

All  night  long  ! 

"  Not  any  brandy  ? 
Landlord,  drum 


Something  or  other  up. 

Got  any  rum  ? 
Step  about  lively  ! 

Hot  and  strong, 
And  don't  keep  us  waiting  here 

All  night  long ! 

"  Not  any  toddy  ? 

Not  the  least  little  bit? 
Whiskey  and  water,  then, 

That  must  be  it ! 
Step  about,  landlord, 

We  're  all  right, 
And  don't  make  a  thirsty  man 

Wait  all  night !  " 

"  What 's  wrong  now,  John  ? 

Come,  sit  down. 
Don't  you  like  white  sugar  ? 

Then  have  brown. 
And,  landlord,  hark  ye, 

Cigars  and  a  light, 
And  don't  keep  us  waiting  here 

Quite  all  night !  " 

"  What  '11  I  have,  man  ? 

The  right,  to  be  sure, 
To  keep  all  the  sense  that 

God  gave  me  secure  ! 
The  right  to  myself,  man, 

And,  in  the  next  place, 
The  right  to  look  all 

Honest  men  in  the  face  ! 

"  So,  waiter,  you  need  not 

Be  off  on  the  run 
Till  I  've  countermanded 

All  orders  but  one  : 
No  liquor,  no  sugar, 

Nor  brown,  nor  yet  white, 
And  don't  fetch  cigars  in, 

And  don't  fetch  a  light ! 

"  We  're  on  our  way  home 

To  our  children  and  wives, 
And  would  n't  stay  plaguing  them 

Not  for  our  lives  ; 
Fetch  only  the  water, 

The  rest  is  all  wrong, 
We  can't  take  the  chances 

Of  staying  too  long." 


WHAT  A   BIRD  TAUGHT. 

WHY  do  you  come  to  my  apple-tree, 
Little  bird  so  gray  ? " 


POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


Twit-twit,  twit-twit,  twit-twit-twee  ! 
That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  Why  do  you  lock  your  rosy  feet 
So  closely  round  the  spray  ?" 

Twit-twit,  twit-twit,  twit-tweet ! 
That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  Why  on  the  topmost  bough  do  you 
get, 

Little  bird  so  gray  ? " 
Twit-twit-twee !  twit-twit-twit ! 

That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"  Where  is  your  mate  ?  come  answer  me, 

Little  bird  so  gray  ? " 
Twit-twit-twit  !  twit-twit-twee  ! 

That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"And  has  she  little  rosy  feet  ? 

And  is  her  body  gray  ?  " 
Twit-twit-twee  !  twit-twit-twit ! 

That  was  all  he  would  say. 

"And  will  she  come  with  you  and  sit 
In  my  apple-tree  some  day  ?  " 

Twit-twit-twee  !  twit-twit-twit ! 
He  said  as  he  flew  away. 

"  Twit-twit !  twit-twit !  twit !  tweet !  " 
Why,  what  in  that  should  be 

To  make  it  seem  so  very  sweet  ? 
And  then  it  came  to  me. 

This  little  wilding  of  the  wood, 
With  wing  so  gray  and  fleet, 

Did  just  the  best  for  you  he  could, 
And  that  is  why  't  was  sweet. 


OLD  MAXIMS. 

THINK  there  are  some  maxims 

Under  the  sun, 
Scarce  worth  preservation ; 

But  here,  boys,  is  one 
So  sound  and  so  simple 

'T  is  worth  while  to  know  ; 
And  all  in  the  single  line, 

"  Hoe  your  own  row  !  " 

if  you  want  to  have  riches, 
And  want  to  have  friends, 

Oon't  trample  the  means  down 
And  look  for  the  ends ; 

But  always  remember 
Wherever  you  go, 


The  wisdom  of  pra< 
"  Hoe  your  own  ro 

Don't  just  sit  and  pray 

For  increase  of  your  store, 
But  work ;  who  will  help  himself, 

Heaven  helps  more. 
The  weeds  while  you  're  sleeping, 

Will  come  up  and  grow, 
But  if  you  would  have  the 

Full  ear,  you  must  hoe  ! 

Nor  will  it  do  only 

To  hoe  out  the  weeds,  ^ 

You  must  make  your  ground  mellow 

And  put  in  the  seeds  ; 
And  when  the  young  blade 

Pushes  through,  you  must  know 
There  is  nothing  will  strengthen 

Its  growth  like  the  hoe  ! 

There  's  no  use  of  saying 

What  will  be,  will  be  ; 
Once  try  it,  my  lack-brain, 

And  see  what  you  '11  see ! 
Why,  just  small  potatoes, 

And  few  in  a  row  ; 
You  'd  better  take  hold  then, 

And  honestly  hoe  ! 

A  good  many  workers 

I  've  known  in  my  time  — 
Some  builders  of  houses, 

Some  builders  of  rhyme  ; 
And  they  that  were  prospered, 

Were  prospered,  I  know, 
By  the  intent  and  meaning  of 

"  Hoe  your  own  row  !  " 

I  've  known,  too,  a  good  many 

Idlers,  who  said, 
"  I  Ve  right  to  my  living, 

The  world  owes  me  bread  !  " 
A  right  \  lazy  lubber  ! 

A  thousand  times  No  ! 
'T  is  his,  and  his  only, 

Who  hoes  his  own  row. 


PETER   GREY. 

HONEST  little  Peter  Grey 

Keeps  at  work  die  livelong  day, 
For  his  mother  is  as  poor  as  a  mouse ; 

Now  running  up  and  down 

Doing  errands  in  the  town, 
And  now  doing  chores  about  the  house. 


182 


THE   POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


The  boys  along  the  street 

Often  call  him  Hungry  Pete, 
Because  that  his  face  is  so  pale  j 

And  ask,  by  way  of  jest, 

If  his  ragged  coat  and  vest 
And  his  old-fashioned  hat  are  for  sale. 

But  little  Peter  Grey 

Never  any  shape  nor  way 
Doth  evil  for  evil  return  ; 

He  is  finer  than  his  clothes, 

And  no  matter  where  he  goes 
There  is  some  one  the  fact  to  discern. 

You  might  think  a  sneer,  mayhap, 

Just  a  feather  in  your  cap, 
If  you  saw  him  being  pushed  to  the  wall ; 

But  my  proudly-foolish  friend, 

You  might  find  out  in  the  end 
You  had  sneered  at  your  betters,  after 
all. 

He  is  climbing  up  his  way 

On  life's  ladder  day  by  day  ; 
And  you  who,  to  laugh  at  him,  stop 

On  the  lower  rounds,  will  wake, 

If  I  do  not  much  mistake, 
To  find  him  sitting  snug  at  the  top. 


A    SERMON 

FOR  YOUNG   FOLKS. 

DON'T  ever  go  hunting  for  pleasures  — 
They  cannot  be  found  thus  I  know ; 

Nor  yet  fall  a-digging  for  treasures, 
Unless  with  the  spade  and  the  hoe  ! 

The  bee  has  to  work  for  the  honey, 
The  drone  has  no  right  to  the  food, 

And  he  who  has  not  earned  his  money 
Will  get  out  of  his  money  no  good. 

The  ant  builds  her  house  with  her  la- 
bor, 

The  squirrel  looks  out  for  his  mast, 
And  he  who  depends  on  his  neighbor 

Will  never  have  friends,  first  or  last. 

In  short,  't  is  no  better  than  thieving, 
Though  thief  is  a  harsh  name  to  call ; 

Good  things  to  be  always  receiving, 
And  never  to  give  back  at  all. 

And  do  not  put  off  till  to-morrow 
The  thing  that  you  ought  to  do  now, 


But  first  set  the  share  in  the  furrow, 
And  then  set  your  hand  to  the  plough. 

The  time  is  too  short  to  be  waiting, 
The  day  maketh  haste  to  the  night, 

And  it  's  just  as  hard  work  to  be  hating 
Your  work  as  to  do  it  outright. 

Know  this,  too,  before  you  are  older, 
And  all  the  fresh  morning  is  gone, 

Who  puts  to  the  world's  wheel  a  shoul- 
der 
Is  he  that  will  move  the  world  on  ! 

Don't  weary  out  with  delaying, 

And  when  you   are    crowded,  don't 
stop  ; 

Believe  me  there  's  truth  in  the  saying  : 
"  There  always  is  room  at  the  top." 

To  conscience  be  true,  and  to  man  true, 
Keep  faith,  hope,  and  love,  in  your 
breast, 

And  when  you  have  done  all  you  can  do, 
Why,  then  you  may  trust  for  the  rest. 


TELLING  FORTUNES. 

"  Be  not  among  wine-bibbers  ;  among  riotous 
eaters  of  flesh  ;  for  the  drunkard  and  the  glutton 
shall  come  to  poverty :  and  drowsiness  shall  clothe 
a  man  with  rags."  —  PKOV  xxiii.  20,  21. 

I  'LL  tell  you  two  fortunes,  my  fine  little 

lad, 

For  you  to  accept  or  refuse. 
The  one  of  them  good,  and  the  other 

one  bad ; 

Now  hear  them,  and  say  which  you 
choose ! 

I  see  by  my  gift,  within  reach  of  your 

hand," 

A  fortune  right  fair  to  behold  ; 
A  house  and  a  hundred  good  acres  of 

land, 
With  harvest  fields  yellow  as  gold. 

I  see  a  great  orchard,  the  boughs  hang- 
ing down 

With  apples  of  russet  and  red ; 
I  see  droves  of  cattle,  some  white  and 

brown, 
But  all  of  them  sleek  and  well-fed. 

I   see   doves   and   swallows   about  the 

barn  doors, 
See  the  fanning-mill  whirling  so  fast, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


183 


See  men  that  are  threshing  the  wheat 

on  the  floors  ; 
And  now  the  bright  picture  is  past ! 

And  I  see,  rising   dismally   up   in   the 

place 

Of  the  beautiful  house  and  the  land, 
A     man   with   a   fire-red    nose   on   his 

face, 
And  a  little  brown  jug  in  his  hand  ! 

Oh  !  if  you   beheld   him,  my   lad,   you 

would  wish 

That  he  were  less  wretched  to  see ; 
For  his  boot-toes,  they  gape  like  the 

mouth  of  a  fish, 
And  his  trousers  are  out  at  the  knee  ! 

In   walking  he  staggers,  now  this  way, 

now  that, 
And  his  eyes  they  stand  out   like  a 

bug's, 
And   he  wears  an  old  coat  and  a  bat- 

tered-in  hat, 
And  I  think  that  the  fault  is  the  jug's  ! 

For  our  text  says   the   drunkard   shall 

come  to  be  poor, 
And    drowsiness    clothes    men   with 

rags  ; 
And  he  does  n't  look  much  like  a  man, 

I  am  sure, 
Who  has  honest  hard  cash  in  his  bags. 

Now  which  will  you  choose  ?  to  be  thrifty 

and  snug, 
And  to   be  right  side  up  with  your 

dish  ; 
Or  to  go  with  your  eyes  like  the  eyes  of 

a  bug, 

And  your  shoes  like  the  mouth  of  a 
fish! 


THE   WISE   FAIRY. 

ONCE,  in  a  rough,  wild  country, 
On  the  other  side  of  the  sea, 

There  lived  a  dear  little  fairy, 
And  her  home  was  in  a  tree. 

A  dear  little,  queer  little  fairy, 
And  as  rich  as  she  could  be. 

To  northward  and  to  southward, 
She  could  overlook  the  land, 

And  that  was  why  she  had  her  house 
In  a  tree,  you  understand. 


For  she  was  the  friend  of  the  friend- 
less, 
And  her  heart  was  in  her  hand. 

And  when  she  saw  poor  women 

Patiently,  day  by  clay, 
Spinning,  spinning,  and  spinning 

Their  lonesome  lives  away, 
She  would  hide  in  the  flax  of  their  dis- 
taffs 

A  lump  of  gold,  they  say. 

And  when  she  saw  poor  ditchers, 

Knee-deep  in  some  wet  dyke, 
Digging,  digging,  and  digging, 
To  their  very  graves,  belike, 
She  would    hide    a    shining  lump    of 

gold 

Where  their  spades  would  be  sure  to 
strike. 

And  when  she  saw  poor  children 
Their  goats  from  the  pastures  take, 

Or  saw  them  milking  and  milking, 
Till  their  arms  were  ready  to  break, 

What  a  plashing  in  their  milking-pails 
Her  gifts  of  gold  would  make  ! 

Sometimes  in  the  night,  a  fisher 
Would  hear  her  sweet  low  call, 

And  all  at  once  a  salmon  of  gold 
Right  out  of'his  net  would  fall ; 

But  what  I  have  to  tell  you 
Is  the  strangest  thing  of  all. 

If  any  ditcher,  or  fisher, 

Or  child,  or  spinner  old, 
Bought  shoes  for  his  feet,  or  bread  to 
eat, 

Or  a  coat  to  keep  from  the  cold, 
The  gift  of  the. good  old  fairy 

Was  always  trusty  gold. 

But  if  a  ditcher,  or  fisher, 

Or  spinner,  or  child  so  gay, 
Bought  jewels,   or  wine,   or   silks   so 
fine, 

Or  staked  his  pleasure  at  play, 
The  fairy's  gold  in  his  very  hold 

Would  turn  to  a  lump  of  clay. 

So,  by  and  by  the  people 

Got  open  their  stupid  eyes  : 
"  We  must  learn  to  spend  to  some  good 
end," 

They  said,  "  if  we  are  wise  ; 
'T  is  not  in  the  gold  we  waste  or  hold, 

That  a  golden  blessing  lies.'* 


1 84 


THE  POEMS  OF  ALICE   GARY. 


A   CHILD'S   WISDOM. 

WHEN  the  cares  of  day  are  ended, 
And  I  take  my  evening  vest, 

Of  thf,  windows  of  my  chamber 
This  is  that  I  love  the  best ; 

This  is  one  facing  to  the  hill-tops 
And  the  orchards  of  the  west. 

All  the  woodlands,  dim  and  dusky, 
All  the  fields  of  waving  grain, 

All  the  valleys  sprinkled  over 
With  the  drops  of  sunlit  rain, 

I  can  see  them  through  the  twilight, 
Sitting  here  beside  my  pane. 

I  can  see  the  hilly  places, 

With  the  sheep-paths  trod  across  ; 
See  the  fountains  by  the  waysides, 

Each  one  in  her  house  of  moss, 
Holding  up  the  mist  above  her 

Like  a  skein  of  silken  floss. 

Garden  corners  bright  with  roses, 
Garden  borders  set  with  mint, 

Garden  beds,  wherein  the  maidens 
Sow  their  seeds,  as  love  doth  hint, 

To  some  rhyme  of  mystic  charming 
That  shall  come  back  all  in  print. 

Ah  !  with  what  a  world  of  blushes 
Then     they    read     it     through     and 
through, 

Weeding  out  the  tangled  sentence 
From  the  commas  of  the  dew : . 

Little  ladies,  choose  ye  wisely, 
Lest  some  day  the  choice  ye  rue. 

I  can  see  a  troop  of  children, 
Merry-hearted  boys  and  girls, 

Eyes  of  light  and  eyes  of  darkness, 
Feet  of  coral,  legs  of  pearls, 

Racing  toward  the  morning  school-house 
Half  a  head  before  their  curls. 

One  from  all  the  rest  I  single, 
Not  for  brighter  mouth  or  eyes, 

Not  for  being  sweet  and  simple, 
Not  for  being  sage  and  wise  : 

With  my  whole  full  heart  I  loved  him, 
And  therein  my  secret  lies. 

Cheeks   as   brown    as   sun   could   kiss 
them, 

All  in  careless  homespun  dressed, 
Eager  for  the  romp  or  wrestle, 

Just  a  rustic  with  the  rest : 


Who  shall  say  what  love  is  made  of  ? 
'T  is  enough  I  loved  him  best. 

Haply,  Effie  loved  me  better  — 
She  with  arms  so  lily  fair,1 

In  her  sadness,  in  her  gladness, 
Stealing  round  me  unaware  ; 

Dusky  shadows  of  the  cairngorms 
All  among  her  golden  hair. 

Haply,  so  did  wilful  Annie, 

With  the  tender  eyes  and  mouth, 

And  the  languors  and  the  angers 
Of  her  birth-land  of  the  South : 


Still  my  darling  was  mv  darling  — 
"  I  can  love,"  I  said,' "  " 


for  both." 


So  I  left  the  pleasure-places, 
Gayest,  gladdest,  best  of  all  — 

Hedg'e-row  mazes,  lanes  of  daisies, 
Bluebirds'  twitter,  blackbirds'  call  — 

For  the  robbing  of  the  crow's  nest, 
For  the  games  of  race  and  ball. 

So  I  left  my  book  of  poems 
Lying  in  the  hawthorn's  shade, 

Milky  flowers  sometimes  for  hours 
Drifting  down  the  page  unread. 

"  He  was  found  a  better  poet ; 
I  will  read  with  him,"  I  said. 

Thus  he  led  me,  hither,  thither, 
To  his  young  heart's  wild  content, 

Where  so  surly  and  so  curly, 

With  his  black  horns  round  him  bent, 

Fed  the  ram  that  ruled  the  meadow  — 
For  where'er  he  called  I  went : 

Where  the  old  oak,  black  and  blasted, 
Trembled  on  his  knotty  knees, 

Where  the  nettle  teased  the  cattle, 
Where  the  wild  crab-apple  trees 

Blushed  with  bitter  fruit  to  mock  us  ; 
'T  was  not  I  that  was  to  please  : 

Where  the  ox,  with  horn  for  pushing, 
Chafed  within  his  prison  stall ; 

Where  the  long-leaved  poison-ivy 
Clambered  up  the  broken  wall  : 

Ah  !  no  matter,  still  I  loved  him 
First  and  last  and  best  of  all. 

When  before  the  frowning  master 
Late  and  lagging  in  we  came, 

I  would  stand  up  straight  before  him, 
And  would  take  my  even  blame  : 

Ah  !  my  darling  was  my  darling  ; 
Good  or  bad  't  was  all  the  same. 


POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


I85 


One    day,    when    the    lowering   storm- 
cloud 

South  and  east  began  to  frown, 
Flat  along  the  waves  of  grasses, 
<  Like  a  swimmer,  he  lay  down, 
With  his  head  propped  up  and  resting 
On  his  two  arms  strong  and  brown. 

On  the  sloping  ridge  behind  us 

Shone  the  yet  ungarnered  sheaves  ; 

Round  about  us  ran  the  shadows 
Of  the  overhanging  leaves, 

Rustling  in  the  wind  as  softly 
As  a  lady's  silken  sleeves. 

Where  a  sudden  notch  before  as 

Made  a  gateway  in  the  hill, 
And  a  sense  of  desolation 

Seemed  the  very  air  to  fill, 
There  beneath  the  weeping  willows 

Lay  the  grave-yard,  hushed  and  still. 

Pointing  over  to  the  shoulders 

Of  the  head-stones,  white  and  high, 

Said  I,  in  his  bright  face  looking, 
"  Think  you  you  shall  ever  lie 

In  among  those  weeping  willows  ?  " 
"  No  ! "  he  said,  "  I  cannot  die  !  " 


"  Cannot  die  ?  my  little  darling, 
'T  is  the  way  we  all  must  go  !  " 

Then  the  bold  bright  spirit  in  him 
Settling  all  his  cheek  aglow, 

He  repeated  still  the  answer, 
"  I  shall  never  die,  I  know  ! " 

"  Wait  and  think.     On  yonder  hill-side 
There  are  graves  as  short  as  you. 

Death  is  strong."  —  "  But  He  who  made 

Death 
Is  as  strong,  and  stronger  too. 

Death  may  take  me,  God  will  wake  me, 
And  will  make  me  live  anew." 

Since  we  sat  within  the  elm  shade 
Talking  as  the  storm  came  on, 

Many  a  blessed  hope  has  vanished, 
Many  a  year  has  come  and  gone  ; 

But  that  simple,  sweet  believing 
Is  the  staff  I  lean  upon. 

From  my  arms,  so  closely  clasping, 

Long  ago  my  darling  fled  ; 
Morning  brightness  makes  no  lightness 

In  the  darkness  where  I  tread  : 
He  is  lost,  and  I  am  lonely, 

But  I  know  he  is  not  dead. 


S6^£c     Lf 


PHCEBE  GARY'S  POEMS. 


BALLADS 

AND 

NARRATIVE    POEMS. 


DOVECOTE  MILL. 

THE   HOMESTEAD. 

FROM  the  old  Squire's  dwelling,  gloomy 

and  grand, 

Stretching  away  on  either  hand, 
Lie  fields  of  broad  and  fertile  land. 

Acres  on  acres  everywhere 
The  looking  of  smiling  plenty  wear, 
That  tells  of  the  master's  thoughtful 
care. 

Here  blossoms  the  clover,  white  and 

red, 

Here  the  heavy  oats  in  a  tangle  spread  ; 
And  the  millet  lifts  her  golden  head. 

And,  ripening,  closely  neighbored  by 
Fields  of  barley  and  pale  white  rye, 
The   yellow   wheat  grows  strong   and 
high. 

And  near,  untried  through  the  summer 

days. 
Lifting  their  spears  in  the  sun's  fierce 

blaze, 
Stand  the  bearded  ranks  of  the  maize. 

Straying  over  the  side  of  the  hill, 
Here  the  sheep  run  to  and  fro  at  will, 
Nibbling   of    short  green    grass    their 
fill. 

Sleek  cows  down  the  pasture  take  their 

ways, 
Or  lie  in  the  shade  through  the  sultry 

days, 
Id*le,  and  too  full-fed  to  graze. 

Ah,  you  might  wander  far  and  wide, 
Nor  find  a  spot  in  the  country  side, 
So  fair  to  see  as  our  valley's  pride  ! 


How,  just  beyond,  if  it  will  not  tire 
Your  feet  to  climb    this  green   knoll 

higher, 
We  can  see  the  pretty  village  spire  ; 

And,  mystic  haunt  of  the  whip-poor-wills, 
The  wood,  that  all  the  background  fills, 
Crowning   the    tops   to   the  mill-creek 
hills. 

There,  miles  away,  like  a  faint  blue  line, 
Whenever  the  day  is  clear  and  fine 
You  can  see  the  track  of  a  river  shine. 

Near  it  a  city  hides  unseen, 

Shut  close  the  verdant  hills  between, 

As  an  acorn  set  in  its  cup  of  green. 

And  right  beneath,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
The  little  creek  flows  swift  and  still, 
That  turns  the  wheel  of  Dovecote  Mill. 

Nearer  the  grand  old  house  one  sees 
Fair  rows  of  thrifty  apple-trees, 
And   tall    straight    pears,    o'ertopping 
these. 

And  down  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  low, 
On  a  rustic  bench,  a  pretty  show, 
White  bee-hives,  standing  in  a  row. 

Here  trimmed  in  sprigs  with  blossoms, 

each 

Of  the  little  bees  in  easy  reach, 
Hang  the  boughs  of  the  plum  and  peach. 

At  the  garden's  head  afe  poplars,  tall, 
And  peacocks,  making  their  harsh  loud 

call, 
Sun  themselves  all  day  on  the  wall. 

And  here  you  will  find  on  every  hand 
Walks,  and  fountains,  and  statues  grand, 
And  trees  from  many  a  foreign  land. 


THE  POEMS  OF  P1KEBE   CARY. 


And  flowers,  that  only  the  learned  can 

name, 
Here  glow  and  burn  like  a  gorgeous 

flame, 
Putting  the  poor  man's  blooms  to  shame. 

Far  away  from  their  native  air 

The   Norway  pines   their  green   dress 

wear  ; 
And  larches  swing  their  long  loose  hair. 

Near  the  porch  grows  the  broad  catalpa 

tree 

And  o'er  it  the  grand  wistaria, 
Born  to  the  purple  of  royalty. 

There  looking  the  same  for  a  weary 

while,  — 
'Twas  built  in  this  heavy,  gloomy 

style,  — 
Stands  the  mansion,  a  grand  old  piie. 

Always  closed,  as  it  is  to-day, 

And  the  proud  Squire,  so  the  neighbors 

say, 
Frowns  each  unwelcome  guest  away. 

Though  some  who  knew  him  long  ago, 
If  you  ask,  will   shake  their  heads  of 

snow, 
And  tell  you  he  was  not  always  so, 

Though  grave  and  quiet  at  any  time,  — 
»      But  that  now,  his   head  in  manhood's 

prime, 
Is  growing  white  as  the  winter's  rime. 


THE  GARDENER'S  HOMF. 

Well,  you  have  seen  it  —  a  tempting 

spot  ! 
Now  come  with  me  through  the  orchard 

plot 
And  down  the  lane  to  the  gardener's  cot. 

Look  where  it  hides  almost  unseen, 
And  peeps  the  sheltering  vines  between, 
Like   a  white  flower  out  of  a  bush  of 
green. 

Cosy  as  nest  of  a  bird  inside, 
Here  is  no  room  for  show  or  pride, 
And  the  open  door  swings  free  and  wide. 

Across  the  well-worn  stepping-stone, 
With  sweet  ground-ivy  half  o'ergrown, 
You  may  pass,  as  if  the   house   were 
your  own. 


You  are  welcome  here  to  come  or  stay, 
For  all  the  host  has  enough  to  say ; 
And  the  good-wife  smiles  in  a  pleasant 
way. 

'T  is  a  pretty  place  to  see  in  the  time, 
When  the  vines  in  bloom  o'er  the  rude 

walls  climb, 
And  Nature  laughs  in  her  joyful  prime. 

Bordered  by  roses,  early  and  late, 

A  narrow  graveled  walk  leads  straight 

Up  to  the  door  from  the  rustic  gate. 

Here  the  lilac  flings  her  perfume  wide, 
And  the  sweet-brier,  up  to  the  lattice 

tied, 
Seems  trying  to  push  herself  inside. 

A  little  off  to  the  right,  one  sees 
Some  black  and  sturdy  walnut-trees, 
And  locusts,  whose  white  flowers  scent 
the  breeze. 

And  the  Dovecote  Mill  stands  just  be- 
yond, 

With  its  dull  red  walls,  and  the  droning 
sound 

Of  the  slow  wheel,  turning  round  and* 
round. 

Here  the  full  creek  rushes  noisily, 
Though  oft  in  summer  it  runs  half  dry, 
And  its  song  is  only  a  lullaby. 

But  the  prettiest  sight  when  all  is  done, 
That  the  eye  or  mind  can  rest  upon, 
Or  in  the  house  or  out  in  the  sun ;  — 

And  whatever  beside  you  may  have  met, 
The  picture  you  will  not  soon  forget,  — 
Is  little  Bethy,  the  gardener's  pet. 

Ever  his  honest  laughing  eyes 
Beam  with  a  new  and  glad  surprise, 
At  the  wit  of  her  childish,  quaint  replies. 

While  the  mother  seems  with  a  love 

more  deep 

To  guard  her  always,  awake  or  asleep, 
As  one  with  a  sacred  trust  to  keep. 

Here  in  the  square  room,   parlor  and 

hall, 
Stand    the   stiff-backed   chairs    against 

the  wall, 
And  the  clock  in  the  corner,  straight 

and  tall. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


Ranged  on  the  cupboard  shelf  in  sight, 
Glistens  the  china,  snowy  white, 
And  the  spoons  and  platters,  burnished 
bright. 

Oft  will  a  bird,  or  a  butterfly  dare 

To  venture   in    through    the    window, 

bare, 
And  opened  wide  for  the  summer  air. 

And  sitting  near  it  you  may  feel 

Faint  scent  of  herbs  from  the  garden 

steal, 
And   catch   the  sound  of   the   miller's 

wheel. 

With  wife   and   child,  and  his  plot  to 

till, 
Here    the    gardener    lives    contented 

still, 
Let  the  world  outside  go  on  as  it  will. 

THE   MILL. 

With  cobwebs  and  dust  on  the  window 

spread, 

On  the  walls  and  the  rafters  overhead, 
Rises  the  old  mill,  rusty  red. 

Grim  as  the  man  who  calls  it  his  own, 
Outside,  from  the  gray  foundation  stone 
To   the   roof  with   spongy   moss   o'er- 
grown. 

Through  a  loop-hole  made  in  the  gable 

high, 

In  and  out  like  arrows  fly 
The  slender  swallows,  swift  and  shy. 

And  with  bosoms  purple,  brown,  and 

white, 
Along    the   eaves,   in    the   shimmering 

light, 
Sits   a   row   of   doves  from   morn    till 

night. 

Less  quiet  far  is  the  place  within, 
Where   the   falling   meal   o'erruns   the 

bin, 
And  you  hear  the  busy  stir  and  din. 

Grave  is  the  miller's  mien  and  pace, 
But  his  boy,  with  ruddy,  laughing  face, 
Is  good  to  see  in  this  sombre  place. 

And  little  Bethy  will  say  to  you, 
That  he  is  good  and  brave  and  true, 
And  the  wisest  boy  you  ever  knew  ! 


"Why  Robert,"  she  says,  "was  never 

heard 

To  speak  a  cross  or  a  wicked  word, 
And  he  would  n't  injure  even  a  bird  !  " 

And  he,  with  boyish  love  and  pride, 
Ever  since  she  could  walk  by  his  side, 
Has  been  her  playmate  and  her  guide. 

For  he  lived  in  the  world  three  years 

before 

Bethy  her  baby  beauty  wore  ; 
And   is   taller  than  she   by  a  head  or 

more. 

Up  the  plank  and  over  the  sill, 
In  and  out  at  their  childish  will, 
They  played  about  the  old  red  mill. 

They   watched   the   mice    through   the 

corn-sacks  steal, 

The  steady  shower  of  the  snowy  meal, 
And  the  water  falling  over  the  wheel. 

They  loved  to  stray  in  the  garden  walks, 
Bordered  by  stately  hollyhocks       ^ 
And  pinks  and  odorous  marigold  stalks. 

Where  lilies  and  tulips  stood  in  line 
By  the  candytuft  and  the  columbine, 
And  lady-grass,  like  a  ribbon  fine. 

Where   the   daffodil   wore    her  golden 

lace, 
And  the  prince's-feather  blushed  in  the 

face, 
And  the  cockscomb  looked  as  vain  as 

his  race. 

And  here,  as  gay  as  the  birds  in  the 

bowers, 
Our  children  lived  through  their  life's 

first  hours, 
And   grew  till  their  heads   o'ertopped 

the  flowers. 


SUGAR-MAKING. 

Swiftly  onward  the  seasons  flew, 
And  enough  to  see  and  enough  to  do 
Our    children    found    the     long    year 
through. 

They  played  in  the  hay  when  the  fields 

were  mowed, 
With    the    sun-burnt    harvesters    they 

rode 
Home  to  the  barn  a-top  of  the  load. 


192 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


When   her  fragrant  fruit  the   orchard 

shed, 

They  helped  to  gather  the  apples  spread 
On  the  soft  grass  —  yellow,  russet,  and 

red. 

Down  hill  in  winter  they  used  to  slide, 
And  over  the  frozen  mill-creek  glide, 
Or  play  by  the  great  bright  fire  inside 

The  house  ;  or  sit  in  the  chimney  nook, 
Pleased  for  the  hundredth  time  to  look 
Over  the  self-same  picture-book. 

Castles,  and  men  of  snow  they  made, 
And  fed  with  crumbs  the  robins,  that 

stayed 
Near  the  house  —  half  tame,  and  half 

afraid. 

So  ever  the  winter-time  flew  fast, 

And  after  the  cold  short  months  were 

past 
Came  the  sugar-making  on  at  last. 

'T  was  just  ere  the  old  folks  used  to 

say, 

"  Now  the  oaks  are  turning  gray, 
'T  is    time    for    the    farmer    to    plant 

away !  " 

Before  the  early  bluebird  was  there ; 
Or  down  by  the  brook  the  willow  fair 
Loosed  to  the  winds  her  yellow  hair. 

Ah  !  then  there  was  life  and  fun  enough, 
In  making  the  "spile"  and  setting  the 

trough, 
And  all,  till  the  time  of  the  "stirring 

off." 

They  followed  the  sturdy  hired  man, 
With  his  brawny  arms  and  face  of  tan, 
Who  gathered  the  sap  each  day  as  it 
ran, 

And    they   thought   it    a    very    funny 

sight, 
The  yoke  that  he  wore,  like  "  Buck  and 

Bright," 
Across  his  shoulders,  broad,  upright. 

They  watched  the  fires,  with  awe  pro- 
found, 

Go  lapping  the  great  black  kettles 
round, 

And  out  the  chimney,  with  rushing 
sound. 


They  loved  the  noise  of  the  brook,  that 

slid 

Swift  under  its  icy,  broken  lid, 
And    they    knew   where    that    delicate 

flower  was  hid, 

That  first  in  March  her  head  upheaves  ; 
And  they  found  the  tender  "  adam-and- 

eves  " 
Beneath  their  bower  of  glossy  leaves. 

They  gathered  spice-wood  and  ginseng 

roots, 
And  the  boy  could  fashion  whistles  and 

flutes 
Out  of  the  paw-pan  and  walnut  shoots. 

So  every  season  its  pleasure  found  ; 

Though  the  children  never  strayed  be- 
yond 

The  dear  old  hills  that  hemmed  them 
round. 


THE  PLAYMATES. 

Behind     the     cottage     the     mill-creek 

flowed, 
And  before  it,  white  and  winding, 

showed 
The  narrow  track  of  the  winter  road, 

The  creek  when  low,  showed  a  sandy 

floor, 

And  many  a  green  old  sycamore 
Threw  its  shade  in  summer  from  shore 

to  shore. 

And  just  a  quiet  country  lane, 

Fringed   close   by  fields   of   grass   and 

grain, 
Was  the  crooked  road  that  crossed  the 

plain. 

Out  of  the  fragrant  fennel's  bed 

On  its  bank,  the  purple  iron-weed  spread 

Her  broad  top  over  the  mullein's  head. 

Off  through  the  straggling  town  it 
wound, 

Then  led  you  down  to  beech-wood, 
pond, 

And  up  to  the  school-house,  just  be- 
yond. 

Not  far  away  was  a  wood's  deep  shade 
Where,  larger  grown,  the  boy  and  maid, 
Searching    for    flowers    and     berries, 
strayed, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


And    oft     they    went    the     field-paths 

through, 

Where  all  the  things  she  liked  he  knew, 
And  the  very  places  where  they  grew. 

The  hidden  nook  where  Nature  set 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet, 

And  the  mountain-fringe  in  hollows  wet. 

The  solomon's-seal,  of  gold  so  fine, 
And  the  king-cup,  holding  its  dewy  wine 
Up  to  the  crowned  dandelion. 

He  gathered  the  ripe  nuts  in  the  fall, 
And   berries   that  grew   by  fence   and 

wall 
So  high  she  could  not  reach  them  at  all. 

The  fruit  of  the  hawthorn,  black  and 
red, 

Wild  grapes,  and  the  hip  that  came  in- 
stead, 

Of  the  sweet  wild  roses,  faded  and  dead. 

Then  the  curious  ways  of  birds  he  knew, 
And    where     they    lived     the    season 

through, 
And  how  they  built,  and  sang,  and  flew. 

Sometimes  the  boughs  he  bended  down, 
And  Bethy  counted  with  eyes  that  shone, 
Eggs,   white   and   speckled,   blue    and 
brown. 

And  oft  they  watched  with  wondering 

eye 

The  swallows,  up  on  the  rafters  high 
Teaching  their  timid  young  to  fly. 

For  many  a  dull  and  rainy  day 
They  wiled  the  hours  till  night  away 
Up  in  the  mow  on  the  scented  hay. 

And  many  a  dress  was  soiled  and  torn 
In  climbing  about  the  dnsty  barn 
And  up  to  the  lofts  of  wheat  and  corn. 

For  they  loved  to  hear  on  the  roof,  the 

rain, 

And  to  count  the  bins,  again  and  again, 
Heaped  with  their  treasures  of  golden 

grain. 

They  played  with  the  maize's  sword-like 

leaves, 
And    tossed    the    rye    and    the    oaten 

sheaves, 

In  autumn  piled  to  the  very  eaves. 
13 


They  peeped  in  the  stalls  where  the  cat- 
tle fed, 

They  fixed  their  swing  to  the  beam 
o'erhead,  — 

Turned  the  wind-mill,  huge,  and  round, 
and  red. 

And  the  treasure  of  treasures,  the  pet 

and  toy, 

The  source  alike  of  his  care  and  joy, 
Was  the  timid  girl  to  the  brave  bright 

boy. 

When  they  went  to  school,  her  hand  he 

took, 
Lead  her,  and  helped  her  over  stile  and 

brook, 
And  carried  her  basket,  slate,  and  book. 

And  he  was  a   scholar,  if  Bethy  said 

true, 
The  hardest  book  he  could  read  right 

through, 
And   there  was  n't   a   "  sum "  that   he 

could  n't  "do  !  " 

Oh,  youth,  whatever  we  lose  or  secure, 
One'good  we  can  all  keep  safe  and  sure, 
Who  remember  a  childhood,  happy  and 
pure  ! 

And  hard  indeed  must  a  man  be  made, 
By  the  toil  and  traffic  of  gain  and  trade, 
Who  loves  not  the  spot  where  a  boy  he 
played. 

And  I  pity  that  woman,  or  grave  or 

Who  keeps  not  fresh  in  her  heart  alway 
The  tender  dreams  of  her  life's  young 
day  ! 

THE   SCHOOL. 

Swiftly  the  seasons  sped  away, 

And  soon  to  our  children  came  the  day 

When  their  life  had  work  as  well  as  play. 

When  they  trudged  each  morn  to  the 

school-house  set 
Where  the  winter  road  and  the  highway 

met  — 
Ah  !  how  plainly  I  see  it  yet ! 

With   its   noisy   play-ground    trampled 

so 

By  the  quick  feet,  running  to  and  fro, 
That  not  a  blade  of  grass  could  grow. 


194 


THE  POEMS  OF  PH(EBE    GARY. 


And  the  maple-grove  across  the  road, 
The  hollow  where  the  cool  spring  flowed, 
And     greenly   the    mint   and    calamus 
showed. 

And  the  house  —  unpainted,  dingy,  low, 
Shielded  a  little  from  sun  and  snow, 
By  its  three  stiff  locusts,  in  a  row. 

I  can  see  the  floor,  all  dusty  and  bare, 
The  benches  hacked,  the  drawings  rare 
On  the  walls,  and  the  master's  desk  and 
chair  : 

And  himself,  not  withered,  cross,  and 

grim, 

But  a  youth,  well-favored,  shy,  and  slim  ; 
More  awed  by  the  girls  than  they  by  him. 

With  a  poet's  eye  and  a  lover's  voice, 
Unused  to  the  ways  of  rustic  boys, 
And  shrinking  from  all  rude  speech  and 


Where  is  he  ?     Where  should  we  find 

again 

The  children  who  played  together  there  ? 
If  alive,  sad  women  and  thoughtful  men  : 

Where  now  is  Eleanor  proud  and  fine  ? 
And  where  is  dark-eyed  Angivine, 
Rebecca,  Annie,  and  Caroline  ? 

And  timid  Lucy  with  pale  gold  hair, 
And  soft  brown  eyes  that  unaware 
Drew  your  heart   to  her,  and  held   it 
there  ? 

There  was  blushing  Rose,  the  beauty 

and  pride 

Of  her  home,  and  all  the  country  side  ; 
She  was  the  first  we  loved  who  died. 

And   the  joy   and   pride   of   our   life's 

young  years, 
The  one   we  loved  without  doubts  or 

fears, 
Alas  !  to-day  he  is  named  with  tears. 

And  Alice,  with  quiet,  thoughtful  way 
Yet  joining  always  in  fun  and  play, 
God  knows  she  is  changed  enough  to- 
day ! 

I  think  of  the  boy  no  father  claimed, 
Of  him,  a  fall  from  the  swing  had  lamed, 
And  the  girl  whose  hand  in  the  mill  was 
maimed. 


And  the  lad  too  sick  and  sad  to  play, 
Who   ceased   to   come   to    school   one 

day, 
And  on  the  next  he  had  passed  away. 

And  I  know  the  look  the  master  wore 
When  he  told  us  our  mate  of  the  day 

before 
Would  never  be  with  us  any  more  ! 

And  how  on  a  grassy  slope  he  was  laid — 
We  could  see  the  place  from  where  we 

played  — 
A  sight  to  make  young  hearts  afraid. 

Sometimes  we  went  by  two  and  three, 
And  read  on  his  tombstone  thoughtful- 
ly. 
"  As  I  am  now  so  you  must  be." 

Brothers  with  brothers  fighting,  slain, 
From  out  those  school -boys  some  have 

lain 

Their   bones    to  bleach  on  the  battle- 
plain. 

Some    have   wandered   o'er   lands  and 

seas, 

Some  haply  sit  in  families, 
With  children's  children  on  their  knees. 

Some  may  have  gone  in  sin  astray, 
Many  asleep  by  their  kindred  lay, 
Dust  to  dust,  till  the  judgment  day  ! 

YOUTH   AND   MAIDEN. 

A  half  score  years  have  sped  away 
Since  Robert  and  Bethy  used  to  play 
About  the  yard  and  the  mill,  all  day. 

For  time  must  go,  whatever  we  do  ; 
And  the  boy  as  it  went,  to  manhood 

grew, 
Steady  and  honest,  good  and  true. 

Going  on  with  the  mill,  when  his  father 

died  ; 

He  lived  untemptecl  there,  untried, 
Knowing  little  of  life  beside. 

Striving  not  to  be  rich  or  great, 
Never  questioning  fortune  or  fate, 
Contented  slowly  to  earn,  and  wait. 

Doing  the  work  that  was  near  his  hand, 
Still  of  Bethy  he  thought  and  planned, 
To  him  the  flower  of  all  the  land. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


195 


And  tall  shy  Bethy  more  quiet  seems, 
With  a  tenderer  light  her  soft  eye  beams, 
And   her   thoughts    are   vague   as   the 
dream  of  dreams. 

Oft  she  sings  in  an  undertone 
Of  fears  and  sorrows  not  her  own,  — 
The   pains   that   love-lorn   maids  have 
known. 

Does   she   think  as   she  breathes  the 

tender  sigh, 

Of  the  lover  that  's  coming,  by  and  by  ? 
If  she  will  not  tell  you,  how  should  I  ? 

And  when   she  walks   in   the   evening 

bland 

Over  the  rich  Squire's  pleasant  land, 
Does  she  long  to  be  a  lady,  grand, 

And  to  have  her  fingers,  soft  and  white, 
Lie  in  her  lap,  with  jewels  bright, 
And  with  never  a  task  from  morn  till 
night  ? 

Often,  walking  about  the  place, 

With  bended  head  and  thoughtful  face, 

She  meets  the  owner  face  to  face. 

Sometimes  he  eyes  her  wistfully, 
As,  blushing  with  rustic  modesty, 
She  drops  him  a  pretty  courtesy, 

And  looks  as  if  inclined  to  say 
Some  friendly  word  to  bid  her  stay, 
Then,  silent,  turns  abrupt  away. 

And  though  to  speak  she  never  dares, 
She  is  sad  to  think  that  no  one  cares 
For  the  lonely  man,  with  thin  gray  hairs. 

The   good-wife,  just  as  the    girl  was 

grown, 

Went  from  the  places  she  had  known, 
And  the  gardener  and  Bethy  live  alone. 

THE   COUNTRY   GRAVE-YARD. 

So  she  goes  sometimes  past  Dovecote 

Mill, 
To  the  place  of  humble  graves  on  the 

hill, 
Where  the  mother  rests  in  the  shadows 

still. 

Here,  sleeping  well  as  the  sons  of  fame, 
Lie  youth  and  maiden,  sire  and  dame, 
With  never  a  record  but  their  name. 


And  some,  their  very  names  forgot, 
Not  even  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 
Yet  sleep  in  peace  ;  so  it  matters  not ! 

Here   lieth   one,    who    shouldered    his 

8'un> 

When  the  news  was  brought  from  Lex- 
ington ; 

And  laid  it  down,  when  peace  was  won. 

Still  he  wore  his  coat  of  "  army  blue," 
Silver  buckles  on  knee  and  shoe, 
And  sometimes  even  his  good  sword, 
'  too. 

For  however  the  world  might  change  or 

gaze, 

He  kept  his  ancient  dress  and  ways, 
Nor  learned  the  fashion  of  modern 

days. 

But  here  he  had  laid  aside  his  staff, 
And  you  read  half -worn,  and  guessed  it 

half 
His  quaint  and  self-made  epitaph,  — 

"  Stoop  down,  my  friends,  and  view  his 

dust 

Who  turned  out  one  among  the  first 
To  secure  the  rights  you  hold  in  trust 

"  Support  the  Constitution,  plain  ! 
By  being  united  we  form  the  chain 
That  binds  the  tyrant  o'er  the  main  !  " 

Here  from  the  good  dead  shut  away 
By  a  dismal  paling,  broken  and  gray, 
Down  in  the  lonesomest  corner  lay, 

A  baby,  dead  in  its  life's  first  spring, 
And  its  hapless  mother,  a  fair  sad  thing, 
Who  never  wore  a  wedding  ring  ! 

Often  the  maiden's  steps  are  led 

Away  to  a  lonely,  grassy  bed, 

With  a  marble  headstone  at  its  head  : 

And  carved  there  for  memorial, 
Half  hid  by  the  willow  branches'  fall, 
The  one  word,  "Mercy,"  that  is  all. 

Whether  her  life  had  praise  or  blame, 
All  that  was  told  was  just  the  same, 
She  was  a  woman,  this  her  name. 

What  beside  there  was  naught  to  show,; 
Though  always  Bethy  longed  to  know 
The  story  of  her  who  slept  below. 


196 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


What  had  she  been  ere  she  joined  the 

dead  ;  — 
Was  she  bowed  with  years,  or  young 

instead  ; 
Was  she  a  maiden,  or  was  she  wed  ? 

Never  another  footstep  here 
But  the  maiden's  seemed  to  come  a-near, 
Yet  flowers  were  blooming  from  year  to 
year. 

Something,  whether  of  good  or  harm, 
Down  to  the  dead  one,  like  a  charm 
Drew  the  living  heart,  fresh  and  warm  ; 

Yet   haunts  more   cheerful   our  Bethy 

had, 
For  youth  loves  not  the  things  that  are 

sad, 
But  turns  to  the  hopeful  and  the  glad. 

Though  somehow  she  has  grown  more 

shy, 

More  silent  than  in  days  gone  by, 
Whenever  the  tall  young  miller  is  nigh. 

As  they  walk  together,  grave  and  slow, 
No  longer  hand  in  hand  they  go  : 
Who  can  tell  what  has  changed  them 
so  ? 

Till  the  sea  shall  cease  to  kiss  the  shore, 
Till  men  and  maidens  shall  be  no  more, 
'T  is  the  same  old  story,  o'er  and  o'er. 

Secret  hoping,  and  secret  fears, 
Blushing  and  sighing,  smiles  and  tears, 
The  charm  and  the  glory  of  life's  young 
years  ! 

WOOING. 

Now  in  the  waning  autumn  days 
The  dull  red  sun,  with  lurid  blaze, 
Shines  through  the  soft  and  smoky  haze. 

Fallen  across  the  garden  bed, 
Many  a  flower  that  reared  its  head 
Proudly  in  summer,  lies  stiff  and  dead. 

The  pinks  and  roses  have  ceased  to  blow, 
The  foxgloves  stand  in  a  long  black  row, 
And  the  daffodils  perished  long  ago. 

Now  the  poplar  rears  his  yellow  spire, 
The  maple  lights  his  funeral  pyre, 
And  the  dog-wood  burns  like  a  bush  of 
fire. 


The  harvest  fields  are  bare  again, 
The  barns  are  filled  to  the  full  with  grain, 
And   the   orchard   trees   of   their  load 
complain. 

Huge  sacks  of  corn  o'er  the  floor  are 

strewn, 

And  Dovecote  Mill  grinds  on  and  on, 
And  the  miller's  work  seems  never  done. 

But  now  't  is  the  Sabbath  eve,  and  still 
For  a  little  while  is  the  noisy  mill, 
And  Robert  is  free  to  go  where  he  will. 

But  think  or  do  whatever  he  may, 
The  face  of  Bethy  he  sees  alway 
Just  as  she  looked  in  the  choir  to-day. 

And  as  his  thoughts  the  picture  paint, 
The  hope  within  his  heart  grows  faint, 
As  it  might  before  a  passionless  saint. 

Looking  away  from   the   book  on  her 

knees, 

Pretty  Bethy  at  sunset  sees, 
Some  one  under  the  sycamore  trees, 

Walking  and  musing  slow,  apart ;  — 
But  why  should  the  blood  with  sudden 

start, 
Leap   to  her  cheek  from  her  foolish 

heart  ? 

Oh,  if  he  came  now,  and  if  he  spake, 
What  answer  should   she,   could    she 

make  ? 
This  was  the   way  her   thought  would 

take. 

Now,  troubled  maid  on  the  cottage  sill, 
Be  wise,  and  keep  your  pulses  still, 
He  has  turned,  he  is  coming  up  the  hill ! 

How  he  spake,  or  she  made  reply, 
How  she  came  on  his  breast  to  lie, 
She  could  not  tell  you  better  than  I. 

But  when  the  stars  came  out  in  the  skies 
He  has  told  his  love,  in  whispered  sighs, 
And  she  has  answered,  with  downcast 
eyes. 

For  somehow,  since  the  world  went 
round, 

For  men  who  are  simple,  or  men  pro- 
found, 

Hath  a  time  and  a  way  to  woo  been 
found. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


I97 


And  maids,  for  a  thousand,  thousand 

years, 

With  trusting  hopes,  or  trembling  fears 
Have  answered  blushing  through  smiles 

and  tears. 

And  why  should  these  two  lovers  have 

more 

Of  thoughtless  folly  or  wisdom's  lore 
Than  all  the  world  who  have  lived  be- 
fore ? 

Nay,  she  gives  her  hand  to  him  who  won 
Her  heart,  and  she  says,  when  this  is 

done, 
There  is  no  other  under  the  sun 

Could  be  to  her  what  he  hath  been  ; 
For  he  to  her  girlish  fancy  then 
Was  the  only  man  in  the  world  of  men- 
She  is  ready  to  take  his  hand  and  name, 
For    better    or    worse,    for    honor    or 

blame  ;  — 
God  grant  it  may  alway  be  the  same. 

PLIGHTED. 

Oh,  the  tender  joy  of  those  autumn  hours, 
When  fancy  clothed  with  spring  the 

bovvers, 
And   the   dead   leaves    under  the   feet 

seemed  flowers  ! 

Oh,  the  blessed,  blessed  days  of  youth, 
When  the  heart  is  filled  with  gentle  ruth, 
And  lovers  take  their  dreams  for  truth. 

Oh,  the  hopes  they  had,  and  the  plans 

they  planned, 

The  man  and  the  maid,  as  hand  in  hand, 
They  walked  in  a  fair,  enchanted  land  ! 

Marred  with  no  jealousy,  fear,  or  doubt, 
At  worst,  but  a  little  pet  or  pout, 
Just  for  the  "  making  up,"  no  doubt ! 

Have   I   said   how    looked   our    wood 

nymph,  wild  ? 
And    how   in    these    days  she   always 

smiled, 
Guileless  and  glad  as  a  little  child  ? 

Her  voice  had  a  tender  pleading  tone, 
She  was  just  a  rose-bud,  almost  grown 
And  before  its  leaves  are  fully  blown. 

Graceful  and  tall  as  a  lily  fair, 


The  peach  lent  the  bloom  to  her  blushes 
rare, 

And  the  thrush  the  brown  of  her  rip- 
pling hair. 

Colored  with  violet,  blue  were  her  eyes, 
Stolen  from  the  breeze  her  gentle  sighs, 
And  her  soul  was  borrowed  from  the 
skies. 

And  you,  if  a  man,  could  hardly  fail, 
If  you  saw  her  tripping  down  the  dale, 
To  think  her  a  Princess  of  fairy  tale  ; 

Doomed  for  a  time  by  charm  or  spell, 
Deep  in  some  lonely,  haunted  dell, 
With  mischief-loving  elves  to  dwell. 

Or  bound  for  a  season,  body  and  soul, 
Underneath  a  great  green  knoll, 
To  live  alone  with  a  wicked  Troll. 

You  would  have  feared  her  form  so  slight 
Would  vanish  into  the  air  or  light, 
Or  sudden,  sink  in  the  earth  from  sight. 

And  you  must  have  looked,  and  longed 

to  see 
The  handsome  Prince  who  should  set 

her  free 
Come  riding  his  good  steed  gallantly. 

Just  as  fair  as  the  good  year's  prime, 
To  our  lovers  wa*  the  cold  and  rime, 
For  their  bright  lives   had   no   winter- 
time. 

The  drifts   might  pile,  and   the   winds 

might  blow, 
Still,  up  from  the  mill  to  the  cottage, 

low, 
There  was  a  straight  path  cut  through 

the  snow. 

And  it  only  added  another  charm 

To   the    cheerful    hearth,   secure    and 

warm, 
To  hear  on  the  roof  and  pane,  the  storm. 

Sometimes  Bethy  would  lightly  say, 

Partly  in  earnest,  partly  in  play, — 

"  I  wish  it  would  never  again  be  May  !  " 

And   he   would   answer,    half   pleased, 

half  tried, 

As  he  drew  her  nearer  to  his  side, 
"  Nay,  nay,  for  in  spring  I  shall  have  my^ 

bride." 


198 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  she  'd  cry  in  a  pretty  childish  pet, 
"  Ah  !  then  you  must  have  whom  you 

can  get ; 
I  shall  not  marry  for  ages  yet." 

Then  gravely  he  'd  shake  his  head   at 

this  : 

But  things  went  never  so  far  amiss 
They  were  not  righted  at  last  by  a  kiss. 

And  so  the  seasons  sped  merry  and  fast, 
And  the  budding  spring-time  came,  and 

passed, 
And  the  wedding  day  was  set  at  last. 

With  never  a  quarrel,  scarce  a  fear, 
Each  to  the  other  growing  more  dear, 
They  kept  their  wooing  a  whole  sweet 
year. 


In  the  village  church  where  a  child  she 

was  led, 
Where  a  maiden  she  sang  in  the  choir 

o'erhead, 
There  were  Bethy  and  Robert  wed. 

Strong,   yet   tender  and   good   looked 

he, 

As  he  took  her  almost  reverently, 
And  she  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see. 

And  men  and  women,  far  and  wide, 
Came  from  village  and  country  side 
To  wish  them  joy  and  to  greet  the  bride. 

The  friends  who  knew  them  since  they 

were  born, 

Each  with  his  best  and  bravest  worn 
Did  honor  to  them   on  their  marriage 

morn. 

But  one  at  the  church  was  heard  to  say  : 
"  The  Squire,  whom  none  has  seen  to- 
day, 
Might  have  given  the  bride  away, 

"  Yet  his  is  a  face  't  were  best  to  miss  ; 
And  what  could  he  do  at  a  time    like 

this, 
But  be  a  cloud  on  its  happiness  ? 

"  So   let  him  stay  with  his  gloom  and 

pride, 

For  he  is  not  fit  to  sit  beside 
The   wedding  guests,    or   to    kiss   the 

bride." 


But  Bethy,  her  heart  was  soft  you  know, 
To  herself,  as  she  heard  it,  whispered 

low, 
"  Who  knows  what  sorrow  has  made 

him  so  ? " 

And  looking  away  towards  the  gloomy 

hall, 
And  then  at  the  bridegroom  fine  and 

tall, 
She  said,  "  I  wish  he  had  come  for  all  !  " 

Home   through   the    green   and   shady 

lane, 

The  way  their  childish  feet  had  ta'en, 
They  came  as  man  and  wife  again. 

Just  to  the  low  old  cottage  here, 
Among  the  friends  and  places  dear 
(For  the  gardener  was  not  dead  a  year). 

And  why,  as  the  great  do,  should  they 

range  ? 

They  needs  must  find  enough  of  change, 
They  are  come  to  a  world  that  is  new 

and  strange. 

Lovingly  eventide  comes  on, 

The  feast  is  eaten,  the  friends  are  gone, 

And  wife  and  husband  are  left  alone. 

In  kindly  parting  they  have  prest 
The  hand  of  every  lingering  guest, 
And  now  they  shut  us  out  with  the  rest. 

Oh,  joy  too  sacred  to  look  upon, 
The  very  angels  may  leave  alone, 
Two  happy  souls  by  love  made  one  ! 

But   whatever  they  gain    or  whatever 

they  miss, 
The  poor  have  no  time  in  a  world  like 

this, 
To  waste  in  sorrow  or  happiness. 

For  men  who  have  their  bread  to  earn 
Must  plant   and   gather  and  grind  the 

corn, 
And  the  miller  goes  to  the  mill  at  morn 

He  blushes  a  little,  it  may  be, 
As  with  jokes  about  his  family 
The  rough  hands  tease  him  merrily. 

But  lightly,  gayly,  as  he  replies, 
A  braver,  prouder  light  in  his  eyes 
Shows  that  he  loves  and  can  guard  his 
prize. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


199 


And  the  voice  o'er  the  roar  of  the  mill- 
wheel  heard, 

In  the  house  is  as  soft  in  every  word, 
As  if  the  wife  were  some  timid  bird  ; 

And  he  strokes  her  hair  as  we  handle 

such 
Dear  things  that  we  love  to  pet  so 

much, 
And  yet  are  half  afraid  to  touch. 

And  Bethy,  pretty,  young,  and  gay, 
Trying  the  strange  new  matron  way, 
Seems  to  "make  believe,"  like  a  child 
at  play, 

In  and  out  the  whole  day  long, 

At  work  in   the  house,  or   her  flowers 

among, 
You  scarce  can  hear  the  birds  for  her 

song. 

Though  many  times  does   she  steal,  I 

ween. 

A  glance  at  the  mill,  the  blinds  between, 
Blushing,  and  careful  not  to  be  seen. 

But  busy  with  sewing,  broom,  or  meal, 
Swiftly  away  the  moments  steal, 
And  she  hears  the  last  slow  turn  of  the 
wheel. 

And    the    miller    glad,  but   tired    and 

slow, 
Comes,  looking  white  as  the  man  of 

snow 
They  made  in  the  winter,  long  ago. 

Oft  the  cottage  door  is  opened  wide, 
Before  his  hand  the  latch  has  tried, 
By  the  eager  wife  who  waits  inside. 

Though  sometimes  out  from  a  hiding- 
place, 

She  slyly  peeps,  when  he  comes,  to 
trace 

The  puzzled  wonder  of  his  face. 

And  she  loves  to  see  the  glad  surprise, 
That,  when  from  her  secret   nook  she 

flies, 
Shines  in  his  happy,  laughing  eyes. 

And    he,    before   from   his    hand    she 

slips, 
Leaves  the  mark  on  her  waist  of  ringer 

tips, 
And  powders  her  pretty  face  and  lips. 


THE   BABY. 

O'er  the  miller's  cottage  the  seasons 

glide, 

And  at  the  next  year's  Christmas-tide 
We  see  her  a  mother,  we  saw  a  bride. 

All  in  the   spring  was  the  brown  flax 

spun, 
Ail  in  the  summer  it  bleached  in  the 

sun  ; 
In  the  autumn  days  was  the  sewing 

done. 

And  just  when  the  Babe  was  born  of 

old, 

Close  .wrapped  in  many  a  dainty  fold, 
She  gave  the  mother  her  babe  to  hold. 

Ah,  sweetly  the  maiden's  ditties  rung, 
And  sweet  was  the  song  the  young  wife 

sung  ; 
But  never  trembled  yet  on  her  tongue, 

Such  tender  notes  as  the  lullabies, 
That  now  beside  the  cradle  rise 
Where  softly  sleeping  the  baby  lies. 

And  the  child  has  made  the  father  grow 
Prouder,  as  all  who  see  may  know, 
Than  he  was  of  his  bride,  a  year  ago. 

He  kinder  too  has  grown  to  all, 
And  oft  as  the  gloomy  shadows  fall, 
He  speaks  of  the  Squire  in  his  lonely 
hall. 

And  Bethy,  even  more  tender  grown, 
Says,  almost  with  tears  in  her  tone, 
How   he 's   growing   old   in   his   home 
alone. 

For  now,  that  her  life  is  so  bright  and 

fair, 
She  thinks  of  all  men  with  griefs  to 

bear  ; 
And  of  sorrowful  women  everywhere, 

Who  sit  with  empty  hands  to  hold, 
And  weep  for  babies  dead  and  cold,  — 
And  of  such  as  never  had  babes  to  hold 

So  the  miller  and  wife  live  on  in  their 

cot 
Untroubled,  content  with  what  they 

have  got ;  — 
Hath  the  whole  wide  world  a  happier 

lot? 


2OO 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBti   CARY. 


And  the  neighbors  all  about  declare, 
That  never  a  better,  handsomer  pair, 
Are  seen  at  market,  church,  or  fair. 

So  free  from  envy,  pride,  or  guile, 
They  keep  their  rustic  simple  style, 
And  bask  in  fortune's  kindliest  smile. 

Though  time  and  tide  must  go  as  they 

will, 

And  change  must  even  cross  the  sill 
Of  the  happy  Miller  of  Dovecote  Mill. 

THE   FATHER. 

Hushed  is  the  even-song  of  the  bird,- 
Naught  but  the  katydid  is  heard, 
And  the  sound  of  leaves  by  the  night 
wind  stirred. 

Swarms  of  fireflies  rise  and  shine 
Out  of  the  green  grass,  short  and  fine, 
Where,  dotting  the  meadows,  sleep  the 
kine. 

And  the  bees,  done  flying  to  and  fro, 
In  the  fields  of  buckwheat,  white  as 

snow, 
Cling  to  the  hive,  in  a  long  black  row. 

Closed  are  the   pink    and   the  poppy 

red, 
And    the    lily   near    them    hangs,  her 

head, 
And  the  camomile  sleeps  on  the  garden 

bed. 

The  wheel  is  still  that  has  turned  all 

day, 

And  the  mill  stream  runs  unvexed  away, 
Under  the  thin  mist,  cool  and  gray, 

And  the  little  vine-clad  home  in  the 

dell 

With  this  quiet  beauty  suiteth  well, 
For  it  seems  a  place  where  peace  should 

dwell. 

And  sitting  to-night  on  the  cottage  sill 
Is  the  wife  of  the  Miller  of  Dovecote 

Mill,— 
Quiet  Bethy,  thoughtful  and  still. 

As  she  hears  the  cricket  chirping  low, 
And  the  pendulum  swinging  to  and 

fro, 
And  the  child  in  the  cradle,  breathing 

slow; 


Are  her  thoughts  with  her  baby,  fast 

asleep, 

Or  do  they  wander  away,  and  keep 
With  him  she  waits  for  as  night  grows 

deep  ? 

Or  are  they  back  to  the  days  gone  by, 
When  free  as  the  birds  that  swing  and 

fly, 

She  lived  with  never  a  care  or  tie  ? 

Ah  !  who  of  us  all  has  ever  known 
The  hidden  thought  and  the  undertone 
Of  the  bosom  nearest  to  our  own  ! 

For  the  one  we  deemed  devoid  of  art 
May   have   Iain   and   dreamed   on   our 

trusting  heart 
The  dreams  in  which  we  had  no  part ! 

And  Bethy,  the  honest  miller's  wife, 
Whom  he  loves  as  he  loves  his  very 

life, 
May  be  with  him  and  herself  at  strife. 

For  she  was  only  a  child  that  day, 
When  she  gave  her  hand  in  the  church 

away, 
And  the  friends  who  loved  her  used  to 

say,— 

(For  you  know  she  was  the  country's 

pride), 

If  she  ever  had  had  a  suitor  beside 
She  might  not  be  such  a  willing  bride  ! 

Though  never  one  would  hint  but  he 
Was  as  true  and  good  and  fair  as  she, 
They  wondered    still    that    the   match 
should  be, 

And  said,  were  she  like  a  lady  drest, 
There  was  not  a  fairer,  east  nor  west ;  — 
And  yet  it  might  be  all  for  the  best ! 

So  who  can  guess  her  thoughts  as  her 

sight 
Rests    on    the    road-track,    dusty   and 

white, 
The  way  the  miller  must  come  to-night ! 


Up  in  his  gloomy  house  on  the  hill, 
He    lies    in    his    chamber,    white    and 

still,  — 
The   Squire,  who  owns  the   Dovecote 

Mill. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE    POEMS. 


201 


What  hath  the  rich  man  been  in  his 

day? 

"  Hard  and  cruel  and  stern,  alway ;  "  — 
This  is  the  thing  his  neighbors  say, 

*'  Silent    and    grim    as    a    man    could 

be ; "  — 

But  the  miller's  wife  says,  tenderly, 
"  He  has  always  a  smile  for  the  babe 

and  me." 

But  whatever  he  was,  in  days  gone  by, 
Let  us  stand  in  his  presence  reverent- 

Jy> 

For  to  him  the  great  change  draweth 
nigh. 

There  the  light  is  dim,  and  the  June 

winds  blow 

The  heavy  curtains  to  and  fro, 
And  the  watchers,  near  him,   whisper 

low. 

Something  the  sick  man  asks  from  his 

bed; 

Is  it  the  leech  or  the  priest  ?   they  said. 
"  Nay,  bring  me  Bethy,  here,"  he  said. 

"  Have  you  not  heard  me ;  will  you  not 

heed; 

Go  to  the  miller's  wife  with  speed, 
And   tell    her  the  dying  of   her  hath 

need." 

Slowly  the  watchers  shook  the  head, 
They  knew  that  his  poor  wits  wandered  ; 
"  Yet,  now  let  him  have  his  way,"  they 
said. 

So   when   the  turn    of  the  night    has 

come, 
She  stands  at  his  bedside,  frightened, 

dumb, 
Holding  his  fingers,  cold  and  numb. 

He   has  sent   the  watchers  and   nurse 

away, 

And  now  he  is  keeping  death  at  bay, 
Till  he  rids  his  soul  of  what  he  would 

say. 

r<  Now,  hear  me,  Bethy,  I  am  not  wild, 
As  I  hope  to  God  to  be  reconciled, 
I  am  thy  father  —  thou  my  child  ! 

"  I  loved  a  maiden,  the  noblest  one 
That  ever  the  good  sun  shone  upon  : 
I  had  wealth  and  honors,  she  had  none. 


"  And  when  I  wooed  her,  she  answered 

me,  — 
'  Nay,  I  am  too  humble  to  wed  with 

thee, 
Let  me  rather  thine  handmaid  be  ! ' 

"  From   home  with   me,   for  love,  she 

fled 

The  night  that  in  secret  we  were  wed  ; 
And  she  kept  the  secret,  living  and 

dead.  , 

"  Serving  for  wages  duly  paid, 

In  my  home  she  lived,  as  an  humble 

maid, 
Till  under  the  grass  of  the  churchyard 

laid. 

"  Twenty  years  has  remorse  been  fed, 
Twenty  years  has  she  lain  there  dead, 
With   her  sweet  name   Mercy,   at   her 
head. 

"  How   you    came   to    the   world   was 

known 

But  to  the  gardener's  wife  alone, 
Who  took,  and  reared  you  up  as  her 

own. 

"Though  conscience  whispered,  early 

and  late, 

Your  child  is  worthy  a  higher  fate, 
Still  shame  and  pride  said,  always,  wait. 

"  But  alas  !  a  debt  unpaid  grows  vast. 
And  whether  it  come,  or  slow  or  fast, 
The  day  of  reckoning  comes  at  last. 

"So,  all  there  was  left  to  do,  I  have 

done, 
And  the  gold  and  the  acres   I   have 

won 
Shall  come  to  you  with  the  morning's  . 

sun. 

"  And  may  this  atone ;  oh  would  that 
it  might, 

And  lessen  the  guilt  of  my  soul  to- 
night, 

For  the  one  great  wrong  that  I  cannot 
right." 

Scarcely    the    daughter    breathed    or 

stirred, 
As    she     listened     close    for    another 

word  ; 
But  "  Mercy ! "  was  all  that  she  ever 

heard. 


202 


THE  POEMS  OF  PH(EBE   GARY. 


She  clung  to  his  breast,  she  bade  him 

stay, 

But  ere  the  words  to  her  lips  found  way, 
She  knew  the  thing  that  she  held  was 

clay. 

All  that  she  had  was  a  father's  gold, 
Never  his  kind  warm  hand  to  hold, 
Never  a  kiss  till  his  lips  were  cold  ! 

THE  WIFE. 

Brightly  the  morning  sunshine  glowed, 
As  slowly,  thoughtfully,  Bethy  trode 
Towards  the  mill  by  the  winter  road. 

Now  she  sees  the  mansion  proud  and 

.  gray, 

And  its  goodly  acres  stretching  away, 
And  she  knows  that  these  are  hers  to- 
day. 

Glad  visions  surely  before  her  rise, 
For  bright  in  her  cheek  the  color  lies, 
And  a  strange  new  light  in  her  tender 
eyes. 

Now  she  is  rich,  and  a  lady  born, 
Does  she  think  of  her  last  year's  wed- 
ding morn, 

And  the  house  where  she  came  a  bride, 
with  scorn  ? 

And  to  him,  unfit  for  a  lady,  grand, 
To  whom  she  gave  her  willing  hand, 
Though  he  brought   her  neither  house 
nor  land  ? 

How  will   she   meet  him  ?  what  is  his 

fate, 

Who  eager  leans  o'er  the  rustic  gate 
To  watch  her  coming  ?  Hush  and  wait ! 

No  word  she  says  as  over  the  sill, 
And  into  the  cottage  low  and  still, 
She  walks  by  the  Miller   of   Dovecote 
Mill. 

Why  does  she  tremble,  the  goodman's 

dame, 

And  turn  away  as  she  sneaks  his  name  ? 
Is  it  for  love,  or  alas  !  for  shame  } 

'  Last  night,"  she  says,  "  as  I  watched 
for  thee, 

Came  those  from  the  great  house  hur- 
riedly, 

Who  said  that  the  master  sent  for  me  : 


"  That  his  life  was  burned  to  a  feeble 

flame, 

But  sleeping  or  waking  all  the  same, 
And  day  and  night  he  called  my  name. 

"  So  I  followed  wondering,  where  they 

led, 

And  half  bewildered,  half  in  dread, 
I  stood  at  midnight  by  his  bed. 

"  What  matter,  to  tell  what  he  said 

again  ; 
The  dreams  perchance  of  a  wandering 

brain  ! 
Only  one  thing  is  sure  and  plain. 

"  Of  his  gold  and  land  and  houses  fine, 
All  that  he  had,  to-day  is  thine, 
Since  in  dying  he  made  them  mine. 


"  I  would  that  the  gift  were  in  thy  name, 
Yet  mine  or  thine  it  is  all  the  same  ; 
And  we  must  not  speak  of  the   dead 
with  blame. 

"  And  who  but  thee  should  be  his  heir  ? 
Thou  hast  served  him  ever  with  faith- 
ful care, 
And  he  had  no  son  his  name  to  bear  ! " 

Slowly,  as  one  who  marveled  still, 
Answered  the  Miller  of  Dovecote  Mill, 
'"T  is  a  puzzle,. tell  it  how  you  will, 

"  Why  his  child  could  never  better  fare 
Than  thou,  with  wealth  enough  and  to 

spare, 
For  it  is  not  I  but  thou  who  art  heir. 

"  'T  is  not  so  strange  it  should  come  to 

thee, 
Thou  wert  fit  for  a  lady,  as  all  could 

see, 
And  rich  or  poor,  too  good  for  me." 

Meek  before  him  she  bowed  her  head  ; 
'•  I  want  nor  honor  nor  gold,"  she  said, 
"  I  take  my  lot  as  it  is  instead. 

"  Keep  gold  and  lands  and  houses  fine, 
But  give  me  thy  love,  as  I  give  thee 

mine, 
And  my  wealth  shall  still  be  more  than 

thine  ! 

"And  if  I  had  been  in  a  mansion  bred, 
And  not  in  a  humble  cot,"  she  said, 
"  I  think  we  two  should  still  have  wed. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  PO. 


203 


"  For  if  I  had  owned  the  acres  grand, 
Instead  of  the  gardener's  scanty  land, 
I  had  given  them  all  for  thy  heart  and 
hand. 

"  So,  heiress  or  lady,  what  you  will, 

This  only  title  I  covet  still, 

Wife  of  the  Miller  of  Dovecote  Mill !  " 


A   BALLAD    OF    LAUDERDALE. 

A   SHEPHERD'S    child  young    Barbara 
grew, 

A  wild  flower  of  the  vale  ; 
While  gallant  Duncan  was  the  heir 

Of  the  Laird  of  Lauderdale. 

He  sat  at  ease   in  bower  and  hall 

With  ladies  gay  and  fine  ; 
She  led  her  father's  sheep  at  morn, 

At  eve  she  milked  the  kine. 

O'er  field  and  fell  his  steed  he  rode, 

The  foremost  in  the  race  ; 
She  bounded  graceful  as  the  deer 

He  followed  in  the  chase. 

Yet  oft  he  left  his  pleasant  friends, 
And,  musing,  walked  apart ; 

For  vague  unrest  and  soft  desire 
Were  stirring  in  his  heart. 

One  morn,  when  others  merrily 
Wound  horn  within  the  wood, 

He  on  the  hill-side  strayed  alone, 
In  tender,  thoughtful  mood.' 

And  there,  with  yellow  snooded  hair, 

And  plaid  about  her  flung, 
Tending  her  pretty  flock  of  sheep, 

Fair  Barbara  sat  and  sung. 

The  very  heath-flower  bent  to  hear, 
The  echoes  seemed  to  pause, 

As  sweet  and  clear  the  maiden  sang 
The  song  of  "  Leader  Haughs." 

And,    while    young     Duncan,    gazing, 
stood 

Enchanted  by  the  sound, 
He  from  the  arrows  of  her  eyes 

Received  a  mortal  wound  ! 

"  Sweet    maid,"    he    cried,   "  the    first 

whose  power 
Hath  ever  held  me  fast ; 


Now  take  my  love, 
You  still  shall  be 


She  felt  her  heart  with  pity  move, 

Yet  hope  within  her  died  ; 
She  knew  her  friendless  poverty, 

She  knew  his  wealth  and  pride. 

"  Alas  !  your  father's  scorn,"  she  said, 

"  Alas  !  my  humble  state." 
"  'T  were  pity,"  Duncan  gayly  cried, 

But  love  were  strong  as  hate  !  " 

He  took  her  little  trembling  hand, 

He  kissed  her  fears  away  ; 
"  Whate'erthe  morrow  brings,"  he  said, 

"  We  '11  live  and  love  to-day  !  " 

So  all  the  summer  through  they  met, 
Nor  thought  what  might  betide, 

Till  the  purple  heather  all  about 
The  hills  grew  brown  and  died. 

One  eve  they,  parting,  lingered  long 

Together  in  the  dell, 
When  suddenly  a  shadow  black 

As  fate  between  them  fell. 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  Duncan's  brow, 
The  maiden's  cheek  grew  pale, 

Far  right  across  their  pathway  frowned 
The  Laird  of  Lauderdale. 

Ah  !  cruel  was  the  word  he  spake, 

And  cruel  was  his  deed  ;  * 
He  would  not  see  the  maiden's  face, 

Nor  hear  the  lover  plead. 

He  called  his  followers,  in  wrath, 
They  came  in  haste  and  fright ; 

They  tore  the  youth  from  out  her  arms, 
They  bore  him  from  her  sight. 

And  he  at  eve  may  come  no  more  ; 

Her  song  no  more  she  trills  ; 
Her  cheek  is  whiter  than  the  lambs 

She  leads  along  the  hills. 

For  Bai'bara  now  is  left  alone 
Through  all  the  weary  hours, 

While  Duncan  pines  a  prisoner,  fast 
Within  his  father's  towers. 

And    autumn    goes,    and    spring-time 
comes, 

And  Duncan,  true  and  bold, 
Has  scorned  alike  his  father's  threats 

And  bribes  of  land  and  gold. 


204 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And    autumn    goes,    and    spring-time 
comes, 

And  Barbara  sings  and  smiles  : 
"  'T  is  fair  for  love,"  she  softly  says, 

"  To  use  love's  arts  and  wiles." 

No  other  counselor  hath  she 
But  her  own  sweet  constancy  ; 

Yet  hath  her  wit  devised  a  way 
To  set  her  true  love  free. 

One  night,  when  slumber  brooded  deep 

O'er  all  the  peaceful  glen, 
She  baked  a  cake,  the  like  of  which 

Was  never  baked  till  then. 

For  first  she  took  a  slender  cord, 
And  wound  it  close  and  small ; 

Then  in  the  barley  bannock  safe 
She  hid  the  mystic  ball. 

Next  morn  her  father  missed  his  child, 
He  searched  the  valley  round  ; 

But  not  a  maid  like  her  within 
Twice  twenty  miles  was  found. 

For  she  hath  ta'en  the  maiden  snood 
And  the  bright  curls  from  her  head, 

And  now  she  wears  the  bonnet  blue 
Of  a  shepherd  lad  instead. 

And  she  hath  crossed  the  silent  hills, 
And  crossed  the  lonely  vale  ; 

And  safe  at  morn  she  stands  before 
The  towers  of  Lauderdale. 

And  not  a  hand  is  raised  to  harm 

The  pretty  youth  and  tall, 
With  just  a  bannock  in  his  scrip, 

Who  stands  without  the  wall. 

Careless  awhile  he  wanders  round, 

But  when  the  daylight  dies 
He  comes  and  stands  beneath  the  tower 

Where  faithful  Duncan  lies. 

Fond  man  !  nor  sunset  dyes  he  sees, 

Nor  stars  come  out  above  ; 
His  thoughts  are  all  upon  the  hills, 

Where  first  he  learned  to  love  ; 

When  suddenly  he  hears  a  voice, 
That  makes  his  pulses  start  — 

A  sweet  voice  singing  "  Leader  Haughs," 
The  song  that  won  his  heart. 

He  leans  across  the  casement  high  ; 
A  minstrel  boy  he  spies ; 


He  knows  the  maiden  of  his  love 
Through  all  her  strange  disguise  ! 

She  made  a  sign,  she  spake  no  word, 
And  never  a  word  spake  he  ; 

She  took  the  bannock  from  her  scrip 
And  brake  it  on  her  knee  ! 

She  threw  the  slender  <?brd  aloft, 
He  caught  and  made  it  fast ; 

One  moment  more  and  he  is  safe, 
Free  as  the  winds  at  last ! 

No  time  is  this  for  speech  or  kiss, 
No  time  for  aught  but  flight ; 

His  good  steed  standing  in  the  stall 
Must  bear  them  far  to-night. 

So  swiftly  Duncan  brought  him  forth, 

He  mounted  hastily  ; 
"  Now,  set  your  foot  on  mine,"  he  said, 

"  And  give  your  hand  to  me  !  " 

He  lifts  her  up  ;  they  sweep  the  hills, 
They  ford  the  foaming  beck  ; 

He  kisses  soft  the  loving  hands 
That  cling  about  his  neck. 

In  vain  at  morn  the  Laird,  in  wrath, 
Would  follow  where  they  fled  ; 

They  're  o'er  the  Border,  far  away, 
Before  the  east  is  red. 

And  when  the  third  day's  sun  at  eve 

Puts  on  his  purple  state, 
Brave  Duncan  checks  his  foaming  steed 

Before  his  father's  gate. 

Out  came  the  Laird,  with  cruel  look, 
With  quick  and  angry  stride  ; 

When  at  his  feet  down  knelt  his  son, 
With  Barbara  at  his  side, 

"  Forgive  me,  father,"  low  he  said, 

No  single  word  she  spake  ; 
But  the  tender  face  she  lifted  up 

Plead  for  her  lover's  sake. 

She  raised  to  him  her  trembling  hands, 
In  her  eyes  the  tears  were  bright, 

And  any  but  a  heart  of  stone 
Had  melted  at  the  sight. 

"Let  love,"  cried  Duncan,  "bear  the 
blame, 

Love  would  not  be  denied  ; 
Fast  were  we  wedded  yestermorn, 

I  bring  you  here  my  bride  !  " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE    POEMS. 


205 


Then  the  Laird  looked  down  into  her 
eyes, 

And  his  tears  were  near  to  fall  ; 
He  raised  them  both  from  off  the  ground, 

He  led  them  toward  the  Hall. 

Wondering  the  mute  retainers  stood, 
"  Why  give  you  not,"  he  said, 

"  The  homage  clue  unto  my  son. 
And  to  her  whom  he  hath  wed  ?  " 

Then  every  knee  was  lowly  bent, 

And  every  head  was  bare  ; 
"  Long  live,"  they  cried,  "  his  fair  young 
bride, 

And  our  master's  honored  heir  !  " 

Years  come  and  go,  and  in  his  stall 
The  good  steed  idly  stands  ; 

The  Laird  is  laid  with  his  line  to  rest, 
By  his  children's  loving  hands. 

And  now  within  the  castle  proud 

They  lead  a  happy  life  ; 
For  he  is  Laird  of  Lauderdale, 

And  she  his  Lady  wife. 

And  oft,  when  hand  in  hand  they  sit, 

And  watch  the  day  depart, 
She  sings  the  song  of  "  Leader  Haughs," 

The  song  that  won  his  heart  ! 


THE  THREE  WRENS. 

MR.  WREN  and  his  dear  began  early 

one  year  — 
They  were  married,  of  course,  on  St. 

Valentine's  Day,  — 
To  build  such  a  nest  as  was  safest  and 

best, 

And  to  get  it  all  finished  and  ready  by 
May. 

Their  house,  snug  and  fine,  they  set  up 

in  a  vine 

That   sheltered   a  cottage  from  sun- 
shine and  heat  : 
Mrs.   Wren  said  :  "  I  am  sure,  this  is 

nice  and  secure ; 

And  besides,  I  can  see  in  the  house, 
or  the  street." 

Mr.  Wren,  who  began,  like  a  wise  mar- 
ried man, 

To  check  his  mate's  weak  inclination 
to  roam, 


Shook   his   little   brown  head,  and  re- 
provingly said  : 

"  My  dear,  you  had  better  be  looking 
at  home. 

"  You  '11  be  trying  the  street  pretty  soon 

with  your  feet, 
And  neglecting  your  house  and  my 

comfort,  no  doubt, 
And  you  '11  find  a  pretext  for  a  call  on 

them  next, 

If  you  watch  to  see  what  other  folks 
are  about. 

"  There  's  your  own  home  to  see,  and 

besides  there  is  me, 
And  this  visiting  neighbors   is   non- 
sense and  stuff ! 
You  would   like   to   know  why  ?  well, 

you  'd  better  not  try  ;  — 
I  don't  choose  to  have  you,  and  that 
is  enough  !  " 

Mrs.  Wren  did  not  say  she  would  have 

her  own  way,  — 
In  fact,  she  seemed  wonderfully  meek 

and  serene  ; 
But  she  thought,  I  am  sure,  though  she 

looked  so  demure, 
"  Well    I   don't   care ;    I    think  you  're 

most  awfully  mean  !  " 

Mr.  Wren  soon  flew  off,  thinking,  likely 

enough, 

I  could  manage  a  dozen  such  creat- 
ures with  ease  ; 

She  began  to  reflect,  I  see  what  you  ex- 
pect, 

But  if  I   know  myself,  I   shall  look 
where  I  please  ! 

However,  at  night,  when  he  came  from 

his  flight, 
Both   acted  as  if  there  was  nothing 

amiss  : 
Put  a  wing  o'er  their  head,  and  went 

chirping  to  bed. 

To  dream  of  a  summer  of  sunshine, 
and  bliss. 

I  need  scarcely  remark,  they  were   up 

with  the  lark, 
And  by  noon  they  were  tired  of  work 

without  play  ; 
And  thought  it  was  best  for  the  present 

to  rest, 

And  then  finish  their  task  in  the  cool 
of  the  day. 


206 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


So,  concealed  by  the  leaves  that  grew 

thick  to  the  eaves, 
He  shut  himself  in,  and  he  shut  the 

world  out ;  — 
"Now,"  said  she,  ''he's  asleep,  I  will 

just  take  a  peep 

In  the  cottage,  and  see  what  the  folks 
are  about." 

Then   she   looked   very  sly,   from   her 

perch  safe  and  high, 
Through  the  great  open  window,  left 

wide  for  the  sun  ; 
And  she  said :    "  I  can't  see  what  the 

danger  can  be, 

I  am  sure  here  is  nothing  to  fear  or  to 
shun  ! 

"  There 's  an  old  stupid  cat,  half  asleep 

on  the  mat, 
But  I  think  she  's  too  lazy  to  stir  or 

to  walk  ;  — 

Oh,  you  just  want  to  show  your  impor- 
tance, I  know, 

But  you  can't  frighten  me,  Mr.  Wren, 
with  your  talk ! 

"  Now  to  have  my  own  will,  I  '11  step 

down  on  that  sill  ; 
I'm  not  an  inquisitive  person  —  oh, 

no ; 
I  don't  want  to  see  what 's  improper  for 

me, 

But  I  like  to  find  out  for  myself  that 
it 's  so." 

Then  this  rash  little  wren  hopped  on 

farther  again, 
And  grown  bolder,  flew  in,  and  sat 

perched  on  a  chair  ; 
Saying,  "  What  there   is   here  that   is 

dreadful  or  queer, 
I  have  n't  been  able  to  find,  I  declare. 

"  Well,  I  wish  for  your  sake,  Mr.  Wren, 

you  would  wake, 
And  see  what  effect  all  your  warning 

has  had  ; 
Ah  !  I  '11  call  up   that   cat,  and  we  '11 

have  a  nice  chat, 

And   rouse   him   with    talking  —  oh, 
won't  he  be  mad  !  " 

So  she  cried,  loud  and  clear,  "Good- 
day,  Tabby,  my  dear  ! 
I  think  neighbors  a  neighborly  feeling 
should  show." 


"  How  your  friendliness  charms,"  said 

Puss  ;  "  come  to  my  arms, 
I  have  had  my  eye  on  you  some  time, 
do  you  know  !  " 

Something  like  a  sharp  snap  broke  that 

moment  his  nap, 
And  Mr.    Wren  said,  with  a  stretch 

and  a  wink  : 
"  I  suppose,  dear,  your  sleep  has  been 

tranquil  and  deep  ; 
I   just  lost  myself  for  a  moment,  I 
think. 

"  Why  !    she  's  gone,   I  declare  !   well, 

I  'd  like  to  know  where  ? " 
And  his  head  up  and  down  peering 

round  him  he  dips  ; 
All  he  saw  in  the  gloom  of  the  shadowy 

room, 

Was  an  innocent  cat  meekly  licking 
her  lips  ! 

"  'T  is   too   bad   she 's   away ;   for,    of 

course,  I  can't  stay," 
Said  the  great  Mr.   Wren,  "  shut  in 

this  little  space  : 
We  must  come  and  must  go,  but  these 

females,  you  know, 
Never  need  any  changes  of  work  or 
of  place." 

And  then  he  began,  like  a  badly-used 

man, 

To  twitter  and  chirp  with  an  impa- 
tient cry  ; 

But   soon  pausing,   sang  out,  "  She 's 

fone  off  in  a  pout, 
she  prefers  being  alone,  so  do  I ! 

"  Yet   the    place  is  quite  still,  so  I  '11 

whistle  until 
She  returns  to  her  home  full  of  shame 

and  remorse  ; 
I  'm  not  lonesome  at  all,  but  it 's  no 

v    harm  to  call ; 

She  '11  come  back  fast  enough  when 
she  hears  me,  of  course  !  " 

So  he  started  his  tune,  but  broke  off 

very  soon, 
As  if  he  'd  been  wasting  his  time,  like 

a  dunce ; 
For  he  suddenly  caught  at  a  very  wise 

thought, 

And   he   altered   his   whole   plan  of 
action  at  once. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


2O7 


"  Now,  that  cat,"  he  exclaimed,  "  may 

be  wrongfully  blamed  ; 
And  since  it  's  a  delicate  matter  to 

broach, 
I  don't  say  of  her,  that  she  is  not  sans 

peur, 

But  I  'm  sure  in  this  matter  she  's  not 
sans  reproche  ! 

"  Ah !  I  can't  love  a  wren,  as  I  loved 

her,  again, 
But  I  '11  try  to  be  manly  and  act  as  I 

ought ; 
And  the  birds  in  the  trees,  like  the  fish 

in  the  seas, 

May  be  just  as  good  ones  as  ever  were 
caught. 

"And   if  one  in  the   hand,  as  all  men 

understand, 
Is  worth  two  in  the  bush,"  Mr.  Wren 

gravely  said, 
"  Then  it   seems  to  me  plain,  by  that 

same  rule  again, 

That  a  bird  in  the  bush  is  worth  two 
that  are  dead." 

So  he  dropped  his  sad  note,  and  he 

smoothed  down  his  coat, 
Till  his    late-ruffled   plumage   shone 

glossy  and  bright ; 
And  light  as  a  breeze,  through  the  fields 

and  the  trees, 

He  floated  and  caroled  till  lost  to  the 
sight. 

And  in  no  longer  time  than  it  takes  for 

my  rhyme,  — 
Now  would  you  believe  it  ?  and  is  n't 

it  strange  !  — 
He  returned  all  elate,  bringing  home  a 

new  mate  : 

But  birds  are  but  birds,  and  are  given 
to  change. 

Of  course,  larger  folks  are  quite  crushed 

by  such  strokes. 
And  never  are   guilty  of  like   fickle 

freaks  ;  — 
Ah  !  a  bird's  woe  is  brief,  but  our  great 

human  grief 

Will  sometimes  affect  us  for  days  and 
for  weeks  ! 

But  this  does  not  belong  of  good  right 

to  my  song, 

For  I  started  to  tell  about  birds  and 
their  kind  ; 


So  I  '11  say  Mr.  Wren,  when  he  married 

again, 

Took  a  wife  who  had  not  an  inquiring 
mind. 

For  he    said   what  was  true  :   "  Mrs. 

Wren,  number  two, 
You  would  not  have  had  such  good 

fortune,  my  dear, 
If  the  first,  who  is  dead,  had  believed 

what  I  said, 

And  contented  herself  in   her  own 
proper  sphere." 

Now,  to  some  it  might  seem  like  the 

very  extreme 
Of  folly  to  ask  what  you  know  very 

well ; 
But  this  Mrs.  Wren  did,  and  behaved  as 

he  bid, 

Never  asking  the  wherefore,  and  he 
did  n't  tell. 

Yes,  this  meek  little  bird  never  thought, 

never  stirred, 
Without  craving  leave  in  the  proper- 

est  way  : 
She  said,  with  the  rest,  "  Shall  I  sit  on 

my  nest 

For  three  weeks  or  thirteen  ?   I  '11  do 
just  as  you  say  !  " 

Now  I  think,  in  the  main,  it  is  best  to 

explain 
The  right  and  the  reason  of  what  we 

command  ; 
But  he  would  n't,  not  he  ;  a  poor  female 

was  she, 

And  he  was  a  male  bird  as  large  as 
your  hand  ! 

And  one  more  thing,  I  find,  is  borne  in 

on  my  mind  : 
Mr.  Wren  may  be  right,  but  it  seems 

to  me  strange, 
That  while  both  his  grief  and  his  love 

were  so  brief, 

He  should  claim  such  devotion  and 
trust  in  exchange  ! 

And  yet  I  've  been  told,  that  with  birds 

young  and  old, 
All  the  males  should  direct,  all  the 

females  obey  ; 
Though,  to  speak  for  a  bird,  so  at  least 

I  have  heard, 

You  must  be  one  :  —  as  I  never  was, 
I  can't  say  ! 


208 


THE  POEMS  OF  PffCEBE  GARY. 


DOROTHY'S   DOWER. 


IN  THREE  PARTS. 
PART   I. 

"  MY  sweetest  Dorothy,"  said  John, 

Of  course  before  the  wedding, 
As  metaphorically  he  stood, 

His  gold  upon  her  shedding, 
"  Whatever  thing  you  wish  or  want 

Shall  be  hereafter  granted, 
For  all  my  worldly  goods  are  yours." 

The  fellow  was  enchanted  ! 

"About  that  little  dower  you  have, 

You  thought  might  yet  come  handy, 
Throw  it  away,  do  what  you  please, 

Spend  it  on  sugar-candy  ! 
I  like  your  sweet,  dependent  ways, 

I  love  you  when  you  tease  me  ; 
The  more  you  ask,  the  more  you  spend, 

The  better  you  will  please  me." 

PART   II. 

"  Confound  it,  Dorothy  !  "  said  John, 

"  I  have  n't  got  it  by  me. 
You  have  n't,   have  you,   spent  that 
sum, 

The  dower  from  Aunt  Jemima  ? 
No ;  well,  that 's  sensible  for  you ; 

This  fix  is  most  unpleasant  ; 
But  money  's  tight,  so  just  take  yours 

And  use  it  for  the  present. 
Now  I  must  go  —  to  —  meet  a  man  ! 

By  George  !  I  '11  have  to  borrow  ! 
Lend  me  a  twenty  —  that 's  all  right  ! 

I  '11  pay  you  back  to-morrow." 

PART  III. 

"  Madam,"  says  John  to  Dorothy, 

And  past  her  rudely  pushes, 
"  You  think  a  man  is  made  of  gold, 

And  money  grows  on  bushes  ! 
Tent's  shoes  /  your  doctor  I    Can't  you 
now 

Get  up  some  n'ew  disaster  ? 
You  and  your  children  are  enough 

To  break  John  Jacob  Astor. 
Where  's  what  you  had  yourself  when  I 

Was  fool  enough  to  court  you  ? 
That  little  sum,  till  you  got  me, 

'T  was  what  had  to  support  you  !  " 
"  It 's  lent  and  gone,  not  very  far ; 

Pray  don't  be  apprehensive." 


"  Lent !     I  Ve  had  use  enough  for  it : 

My  family  is  expensive. 
I  did  n't,  as  a  woman  would, 

Spend  it  on  sugar-candy  !  " 
"  No,  John,  I  think  the  most  of  it 

Went  for  cigars  and  brandy  !  " 


BLACK   RANALD. 

IN  the  time  when  the  little  flowers  are 
born, 

The  joyful est  time  of  the  year, 
Fair  Marion  from  the  Hall  rode  forth 

To  chase  the  fleet  red  deer. 

She  moved  among  her  comely  maids 

With  such  a  stately  mien 
That  they  seemed  like  humble  violets 

By  the  side  of  a  lily  queen. 

For  she,  of  beauties  fair,  was  named 

The  fairest  in  the  land ; 
And    lovelorn    youths   had    pined   and 
died 

For  the  clasp  of  her  lady  hand. 

But  never  suitor  yet  had  pressed 

Her  dainty  finger-tips ; 
And  never  cheek  that  wore  a  beard 

Had  touched  her  maiden  lips. 

She  laughed  and  danced,  she  laughed 

and  sang ; 

She  bade  her  lovers  wait ; 
Till   the    gallant    Stuart    Grasme,   one 

morn, 
Checked  rein  at  her  father's  gate. 

She  blushed  and  sighed ;  she  laughed 

no  mofe  ; 

She  sang  a  low  refrain ; 
And,    when    the    bold    young    Stuart 

wooed, 
He  did  not  woo  in  vain. 

And  now,  as  to  the  chase  she  rides, 

Across  her  father's  land, 
She  wears  a  bright  betrothal  ring 

Upon  her  snowy  hand. 

She  loosed  the  rein,  she  touched  the 

flank 

Of  her  royal  red-roan  steed. 
"  Now,  who   among   my   friends,"  she 

said, 
"  Will  vie  with  me  in  speed  ? " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


209 


She    looked    at    Graeme    before   them 
all, 

Though  her  face  was  rosy  red. 
"  He  who  can  catch  me"  as  I  ride 

Shall  be  my  squire,"  she  said. 

Away  !  they  scarce  can  follow 
Even  with  their  eager  eyes  ; 

She  clears  the  stream,  she  skims  the 

plain 
Swift  as  the  swallow  flies. 

Alack  !  no  charger  in  the  train 
Can  match  with  hers  to-day  ; 

The  very  deer-hounds,  left  behind, 
Are* yelling  in  dismay. 

Far  out  upon  the  lonely  moor 
Her  speed  she  checks  at  last ; 

One  single  horseman  follows  her, 
With  hoof-strokes  gaining  fast. 

She  's  smiling  softly  to  herself, 
She  's  speaking  soft  and  low  : 

"None  but  the  gallant  Stuart  Graeme 
Could  follow  where  I  go  !  " 

She    wheels    her    horse ;   she    sees    a 
sight 

That  makes  her  pulses  stand  ; 
Her  very  cheek,  but  now  so  red, 

Grows  whiter  than  her  hand. 

For,  while  no  friend  she  sees  the  way 
Her  frightened  eyes  look  back, 

Black  Ranald,  of  the  Haunted  Tower, 
fe  close  upon  her  track  ! 

He  's  gained  her  side ;  he  's  seized  her 
rein  — 

The  crudest  man  in  the  land  ; 
And  he  has  clasped  her  virgin  waist 

With  his  wicked,  wicked  hand. 

She  feels  his  breath  upon  her  face, 
She  hears  his  mocking  tcne, 

As  he  lifts  her  from  her  red-roan  steed 
And  sets  her  on  his  osvn. 

"Proud  Mistress  Marion,"  he  cries, 

"  In  spite  of  all  your  scorn, 
Black  Ranald  is  your  squire  to-day, 

He  '11  be  your  lord  at  morn  !  " 

She  hears  no  more,  she  sees  no  more, 

For  many  a  weary  hour, 
Till  from  her  deadly  swoon  she  wakes 

In.  Ranald's  Haunted  Tower. 


For,  in  the  highest  turret  there, 

With  never  a  friend  in  call, 
He   has  tied  her  hands  with  a  silver 
chain 

And  bound  them  to  the  wall. 

She   fears   no  ghosts    that    haunt   the 

dark, 

But  she  fears  the  coming  dawn  ; 
And  her  heart  grows  sick  when  at  day 

she  hears 
The  prison-bolts  withdrawn. 

She  summons  all  her  strength,  as  they 
Who  for  the  headsman  wait ; 

And  she  prays  to  every  virgin  saint 
To  help  her  in  her  strait ; 

For  she  sees  her  jailer  cross  the  sill. 

"  Now,  if  you  will  wed  with  me," 
He  said,  "  henceforth  of  my  house  and 
land 

You  shall  queen  and  ruler  be." 

"  Bold    Ranald    of    the    Tower,"    she 
said, 

"  With  heart  as  black  as  your  name, 
I  will  only  be  the  bride  of  Death 

Or  the  bride  of  Stuart  Graeme. 

"  I  will  make  the  coldest,  darkest  bed 
In  the  dismal  church-yard  mine, 

And  lay  me  down  to  sleep  in  it, 
Or  ever  I  sleep  in  thine  ! " 

"  I  shall  tame  you  yet,  proud  girl,"  he 

cried, 

"  For  you  shall  not  be  free, 
Nor   bread   nor   wine   shall   pass  your 

lips 
Till  you  vow  to  wed  with  me  ! " 

She  turned ;    she  laughed  in  his  very 
face  : 

"  Sir  Knave,  your  threats  are  vain  ; 
Nor  bread  nor  wine  shall  pass  my  lips 

Till  I  am  free  again  !  " 

He  echoed  back  her  mocking  laugh, 

He  turned  him  on  his  heel ; 
When  something  smote  upon  his  ear 

Like  the  ringing  clang  of  steel. 

The  bolts  are  snapped ;  the  strong  dooi 
falls ; 

The  Graeme  is  standing  there  ; 
And  a  hundred  armed  men  at  his  back 

Are  swarming  up  the  stair  ! 


2IO 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Black  Ranald  put  his  horn  to  his  lips 

And  blew  a  warning  note. 
"  Your  followers  lie,"  brave  Stuart  said, 

"  Six  deep  within  the  moat ! 

"  Alone,  a  prisoner  in  your  tower, 
Now  yield,  or  you  are  dead  !  " 

Black   Ranald    gnashed   his    teeth    in 

rage, 
"  I  yield  to  none,"  he  said. 

They   drew   their  swords.     "  Now   die 
the  death," 

Said  Graeme,  "  you  merit  well." 
And  as  he  spake,  at  Marion's  feet 

The  lifeless  Ranald  fell. 

The  Stuart  raised  the  death-pale  maid  ; 

He  broke  her  silver  chain  ; 
He  bore  her  down,  and  set  her  safe 

On  her  good  red-roan  again. 

Now  closely  at  his  side  she  rides, 
Nor  heeds  them  one  and  all  ; 

And   his   hand   ne'er  quits   her  bridle- 
rein 
Till  they  reach  her  father's  Hall. 

Then  the  glad  sire  clasps  that  hand  in 

his  own, 
While   the   tears   to   his  beard  drop 

slow  ; 
"  You  have  saved  my  child  and  rid  the 

land," 
He  cries,  "  of  a  cruel  foe  ; 

"  And  if  this  maiden  say  not  nay,"  — 
Her  cheeks  burned  like  a  flame, — 

"  Then  you  shall  be  my  son  to-night, 
And  she  shall  bear  your  name." 

They  have  set  the  lights  in  every  room  ; 

They  have  spread  the  wedding-feast ; 
And  from  the  neighboring  cloister's 
cell 

They  have  brought  the  holy  priest. 

And  she  is  a  captive  once  again  — 

The  timid,  tender  dove  ! 
For  she  slipped  the  silver  chain  to  wear 

The  golden  chain  of  love  ! 

Sweet  Marion,   under  her   snow-white 

veil, 

Stands  fast  by  her  captor's  side, 
As  he  binds  he'   hands   with  the  mar- 
riage-ring 
And  kisses  hei  Hrst,  a  bride  ! 


THE   LEAK  IN  THE  DIKE. 

A   STORY   OF    HOLLAND. 

THE  good  dame  looked  from  her  cot- 
tage 

At  the  close  of  the  pleasant  day, 
And  cheerily  called  to  her  little  son 

Outside  the  door  at  play  : 
"  Come,  Peter,  come  !  I  want  you  to  go, 

While  there  is  light  to  see, 
To  the  hut  of  the  blind  old  man  who 
lives 

Across  the  dike,  for  me  ; 
And  take  these  cakes  I  made  for  .him — 

They  are  hot  and  smoking  yet  ; 
You  have  time  enough  to  go  and  come 

Before  the  sun  is  set." 

Then  the  good-wife  turned  to   her  la- 
bor, 

Humming  a  simple  song, 
And  thought  of  her  husband,  working 
hard 

At  the  sluices  all  day  long  ; 
And  set  the  turf  a-blazing, 

And  brought  the  coarse  black  bread  ; 
That  he  might  find  a  fire  at  night, 

And  find  the  table  spread. 

And  Peter  left  the  brother, 

With  whom  all  day  he  had  played, 
And  the  sister  who  had  watched  their 
sports 

In  the  willow's  tender  shade  ; 
And  told  them  they  'd  see  him  back  be- 
fore 

They  saw  a  star  in  sight, 
Though  he  would  n't  be  afraid  to  go 

In  the  very  darkest  night  ! 
For  he  was  a  brave,  bright  fellow, 

With  eye  and  conscience  clear  ; 
He  could  do  whatever  a  boy  might  do, 

And  he  had  not  learned  to  fear. 
Why,  he  would  n't  have  robbed  a  bird's 
nest, 

Nor  brought  a  stork  to  harm, 
Though  never  a  law  in  Holland 

Had  stood  to  stay  his  arm  ! 

And  now,  with  his  face  all  glowing, 
And  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day 

With  the  thoughts  of  his  pleasant  er 

rand, 
He  trudged  along  the  way ; 

And  soon  his  joyous  prattle 
Made  glad  a  lonesome  place  — 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


211 


Alas  !  if  only  the  blind  old  man 
Could  have  seen  that  happy  face  ! 

Yet  he  somehow  caught  the  brightness 
Which  his  voice  and  presence  lent ; 

And  he  felt  the  sunshine  come  and  go 
As  Peter  came  and  went. 

And  now,  as  the  day  was  sinking, 

And  the  winds  began  to  rise, 
The  mother  looked  from  her  door  again, 

Shading  her  anxious  eyes  ; 
And  saw  the  shadows  deepen 

And  birds  to  their  homes  come  back, 
But  never  a  sign  of  Peter 

Along  the  level  track. 
But  she  said  :  "  He  will  come  at  morn- 
ing, 

So  I  need  not  fret  or  grieve  — 
Though  it  is  n't  like  my  boy  at  all 

To  stay  without  my  leave." 

But  where  was  the  child  delaying  ? 

On  the  homeward  way  was  he, 
And  across  the  dike  while  the  sun  was 

up 

•  An  hour  above  the  sea. 
He  was  stopping  now  to  gather  flowers, 

Now  listening  to  the  sound, 
As  the  angry  waters  dashed  themselves 

Against  their  narrow  bound. 
"  Ah  !  well  for  us,"  said  Peter, 

"  That  the  gates  are  good  and  strong. 
And  my  father  tends  them  carefully, 

Or  they  would  not  hold  you  long  ! 
You  're  a  wicked  sea,"  said  Peter ; 

"  I  know  why  you  fret  and  chafe  ; 
You  would  like  to  spoil  our  lands  and 
homes  ; 

But  our  sluices  keep  you  safe  ! " 

But  hark  !  Through  the  noise  of  waters 

Comes  a  low,  clear,  trickling  sound  ; 
And  the  child's  face  pales  with  terror. 

And  his  blossoms  drop  to  the  ground. 
He  is  up  the  bank  in  a  moment, 

And,  stealing  through  the  sand, 
He  sees  a  stream  not  yet  so  large 

As  his  slender,  childish  hand. 
'  Tis  a  leak  in  the  dike  /     He  is  but  a 
boy, 

Unused  to  fearful  scenes  ; 
But,  young  as  he  is,  he  has  learned  to 
know 

The  dreadful  thing  that  means. 
A  leak  in  the  dike  !     The  stoutest  heart 

Grows  faint  that  cry  to  hear, 
And  the  bravest  man  in  all  the  land 

Turns  white  with  mortal  fear. 


For  he  knows  the   smallest   leak   may 

grow 

To  a  flood  in  a  single  night  ; 
And  he  knows  the  strength  of  the  cruel 

-sea 
When  loosed  in  its  angry  might. 

And  the  boy  !     He  has  seen  the  danger, 

And.  shouting  a  wild  alarm, 
He  forces  back  the  weight  of  the  sea 

With  the  strength  of  his  single  arm ! 
He  listens  for  the  joyful  sound 

Of  a  footstep  passing  nigh ;     • 
And  lays  his  ear  to  the  ground,  to  catch 

The  answer  to  his  cry. 
And  he  hears  the  rough  winds  blowing, 

And  the  waters  rise  and  fall, 
But  never  an  answer  comes  to  him, 

Save  the  echo  of  his  call. 
He  sees  no  hope,  no  succor, 

His  feeble  voice  is  lost ; 
Yet  what  shall  he  do  but  watch  and 
wait, 

Though  be  perish  at  his  post ! 

So,  faintly  calling  and  crying 

Till  the  sun  is  under  the  sea  ; 
Crying  and  moaning  till  the  stars 

Come  out  for  company  ; 
He  thinks  of  his  brother  and  sister, 

Asleep  in  their  safe  warm  bed  ; 
He  thinks  of  his  father  and  mother, 

Of  himself  as  dying  —  and  dead  ; 
And  of  how,  when  the  night  is  over, 

They  must  come  and  find  him  at  last  : 
But  he  never  thinks  he  can  leave  th^> 
place 

Where  duty  holds  him  fast. 

The  good  dame  in  the  cottage 

Is  up  and  astir  with  the  light, 
For  the  thought  of  her  little  Peter 

Has  been  with  her  all  night. 
And  now  she  watches  the  pathway, 

As  yester  eve  she  had  done ; 
But  what  does  she  see  so  strange  and 
black 

Against  the  rising  sun  ? 
Her  neighbors  are  bearing  between  them 

Something  straight  to  her  door  ; 
Her  child  is  coming  home,  but  not 

As  he  ever  came  before  ! 

"  He  is  dead  !  "  she   cries ;  "  my  dar- 
ling !  " 

And  the  startled  father  hears, 
And  comes  and  looks  the  way  she  lookss 

And  fears  the  thing  she  fears  : 


212 


POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Till  a  glad  shout  from  the  bearers 

Thrills  the  stricken  man  and  wife  — 
"  Give  thanks,  for  your  son  has  saved 
our  land, 

And  God  has  saved  his  life  !  " 
So,  there  in  the  morning  sunshine 

They  knelt  about  the  boy  ; 
And  every  head  was  bared  and  bent 

In  tearful,  reverent  joy. 

'T  is  many  a  year  since  then  ;  but  still, 

When  the  sea  roars  like  a  flood, 
Their  boys  are  taught  what  a  boy  can 
do 

Who  is  brave  and  true  and  good. 
For  every  man  in  that  country 

Takes  his  son  by  the  hand, 
And  tells  him  of  little  Peter, 

Whose  courage  saved  the  land. 

They  have  many  a  valiant  hero, 

Remembered  through  the  years  : 
But  never  one  whose  name  so  oft 

Is  named  with  loving  tears. 
And  his  deed  shall  be  sung  by  the  cra- 
dle, 

And  told  to  the  child  on  the  knee, 
So  long  as  the  dikes  of  Holland 

Divide  the  land  from  the  sea  ! 


THE  LANDLORD  OF  THE  BLUE 
HEN. 

ONCE,  a  long  time  ago,  so  good  stories 
begin, 

There  stood  by  a  roadside  an  old-fash- 
ioned inn  ; 

An  inn,  which  the  landlord  had  named 
"The  Blue  Hen," 

While  he,  by  his  neighbors,  was  called 
"  Uncle  Ben  ;  " 

At  least,  they  quite  often  addressed  him 

that  way 
When  ready  to  drink  but  not  ready  to 

pay; 
Though  when  he  insisted  on  having  the 

cash, 
They  went   off,   muttering  "  Rummy," 

and  "Old  Brandy  Smash." 

He  sold  barrels  of  liquor,  but  still  the 

old  "  Hen  " 
Seemed   never  to  flourish,  and  neither 

did  "Ben;" 


For  he  drank  up  the  profits,  as  every 

one  knew, 
Even   those   who   were    drinking   their 

profits  up,  too. 

So,  with  all  they  could  drink,  and  with 
all  they  could  pay, 

The  landlord  grew  poorer  and  poorer 
each  day  ; 

Men  said,  as  he  took  down  the  gin  from 
the  shelf, 

"  The  steadiest  customer  there  was  him- 
self." 

There  was  hardly  a  man  living  in  the 

same  street 
But  had  too  much  to  drink  and  too  little 

to  eat ; 
The  women  about  the  old  "  Hen  "  got 

the  blues  ; 
The  girls  had  no  bonnets,  the  boys  had 

no  shoes. 

When  a  poor  fellow  died,  he  was  borne 
on  his  bier 

By  his  comrades,  whose  hands  shook 
with  brandy  and  fear  ; 

For  of  course  they  were  terribly  fright- 
ened, and  yet, 

They  went  back  to  "  The  Blue  Hen  " 
to  drink  and  forget  1 

There  was  one  jovial  farmer  who  could 
n't  get  by 

The  door  of  "The  Blue  Hen  "  without 
feeling  dry  ; 

One  day  he  discovered  his  purse  grow- 
ing light, 

"  There  must  be  a  leak  somewhere,"  he 
said.  He  was  right ! 

Then  there  was  the  blacksmith  (the  best 

ever  known 
Folks    said,    if    he'd    only    let    liquor 

alone) 
Let  his  forge  cool  so  often,  at  last  he 

forgot 
To  heat  up   his   iron   and  strike  when 

't  was  hot. 

Once  a  miller,  going  home  from  "  The 

Blue  Hen,"  't  was  said, 
While  his  wife  sat  and  wept  by  his  sick 

baby's  bed, 
Had  made   a  false   step,  and  slept  all 

night  alone 
In  the  bed  of  the  river,  instead  of  his 

own. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


213 


Even   poor  "  Ben "  himself  could  not 

drink  of  the  cup 

Of  fire  forever  without  burning  up  ; 
He  grew  sick,  fell   to  raving,  declared 

that  he  knew 
No  doctors  could  help  him  ;  and  they 

said  so,  too. 

He  told  those  about  him,  the  ghosts  of 

the  men 
Who   used  in  their  life-times  to  haunt 

"  The  Blue  Hen," 
Had  come  back  each  one  bringing  his 

children  and  wife, 
And  trying  to  frighten  him  out  of  his 

life. 

NO.W  he  thought  he  was  burning  ;  the 

very  next  breath 
He  shivered  and  cried,  he  was  freezing 

to  death ; 
That  the  peddler  lay  by  him,  who,  long 

years  ago, 
Was  put  out  of  "  The  Blue  Hen,"  and 

died  in  the  snow. 

He  said  that  the  blacksmith,  who  turned 

to  a  sot, 
Laid  him  out  on  an  anvil  and  beat  him, 

red-hot ; 
That  the  builder,  who  swallowed   his 

brandy  fourth  proof, 
Was  pitching  him  downward,  headfirst, 

from  the  roof. 

At  last  he  grew  frantic  ;  he  clutched  at 
the  sheet, 

And -cried  that  the  miller  had  hold  of 
his  feet ; 

Then  leaped  from  his  bed  with  a  ter- 
rible scream, 

That  the  dead  man  was  dragging  him 
under  the  stream. 

Then  he  ran,  and  so  swift  that  no  mor- 
tal could  save  ; 

He  went  over  the  bank  and  went  under 
the  wave  ; 

And  his  poor  lifeless  body  next  morn- 
ing was  found 

la  the  very  same  spot  where  the  miller 
was  drowned. 

"  'Twas  n't  liquor  that  killed  him,"  some 

said,  "  that  was  plain  ; 
He  was  crazy,  and   sober  folks   might 

be  insane  !  " 


"  'T  was  delirium  tremens"  the  cor- 
oner said, 

But  whatever  it  was,  he  was  certainly 
dead! 


THE   KING'S  JEWEL. 

'T  WAS  a  night  to  make  the  bravest 
Shrink  from  the  tempest's  breath, 

For  the  winter  snows  were  bitter, 
And  the  winds  were  cruel  as  death. 

All  day  on  the  roofs  of  Warsaw 
Had  the  white  storm  sifted  down 

Till  it  almost  hid  the  humble  huts 
Of  the  poor,  outside  the  town. 

And  it  beat  upon  one  low  cottage 
With  a  sort  of  reckless  spite, 

As  if  to  add  to  their  wretchedness 
Who  sat  by  its  hearth  that  night ; 

Where  Dorby,  the  Polish  peasant, 
Took  his  pale  wife  by  the  hand, 

And  told  her  that  when  the  morrow 

came 
They  would  have  no  home  in  the  land. 

No  human  hand  would  aid  him 

With  the  rent  that  was  due  at  morn  ; 

And  his  cold,  hard-hearted  landlord 
Had  spurned  his  prayers  with  scorn. 

Then  the  poor  man  took  his  Bible, 
And  read,  while  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

To  see  if  any  comfort 

Were  written  there  for  him  ; 

When  he  suddenly  heard  a  knocking 
On  the  casement,  soft  and  light ; 

It  wasn't   the   storm;    but   what   else 

could  be 
Abroad  in  such  a  night  ? 

Then  he  went  and  opened  the  window, 
But  for  wonder  scarce  could  speak, 

As  a  bird  flew  in  with  a  jeweled  ring 
Held  flashing  in  his  beak. 

'T  is  the  bird  I  trained,  said  Dorby, 
And  that  is  the  precious  ring, 

That  once  I  saw  on  the  royal  hand 
Of  our  good  and  gracious  King. 

And  if  birds,  as  our  lesson  tells  us, 
Once  came  with  food  to  men, 


2I4 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Who  knows,  said  the  foolish  peasant, 
But  they  might  be  sent  again  ! 

So  he  hopefully  went  with  the  morn- 
ing, 

And  knocked  at  the  palace  gate, 
And  gave  to  the  King  the  jewel 

They  had  searched  for  long  and  late. 

And  when  he  had  heard  the  story 
Which  the  peasant  had  to  tell, 

He  gave  him  a  fruitful  garden, 
And  a  home  wherein  to  dwell. 

And  Dorby  wrote  o'er  the  doorway 
These  words  that  all  might  see  : 

"  Thou    hast    called   on   the    Lord    in 

trouble, 
And  He  hath  delivered  thee  !  " 


EDGAR'S   WIFE. 

I  KNOW  that  Edgar 's  kind  and  good, 
And  I  know  my  home  is  fine, 

If  I  only  could  live  in  it,  mother, 
And  only  could  make  it  mine. 

You  need  not  look  at  me  and  smile, 
In  such  a  strange,  sad  way  ; 

I  am  not  out  of  my  head  at  all, 
And  I  know  just  what  I  say. 

I  know  that  Edgar  freely  gives 
Whate'er  he  thinks  will  please  ; 

But  it's  what  we  love  that  brings  us 

good, 
And  my  heart  is  not  in  these. 

Oh,  I   wish    I   could   stand  where    the 
maples 

Drop  their  shadows,  cool  and  dim  ; 
Or  lie  in  the  sweet  red  clover, 

Where  I  walked,  but  not  with  him  ! 

Nay,  you  need  not  mind  me,  mother, 
I  love  him  —  or  at  the  worst, 

I  try  to  shut  the  past  from  my  heart ; 
But  you  know  he  was  not  the  first ! 

And  I  strive  to  make  him  feel  my  life 
Is  his,  and  here,  as  I  ought ; 

But  he  never  can  come  into  the  world 
That  I  live  in,  in  my  thought. 

For  whether  I  wake,  or  whether  I  sleep, 
It  is  always  just  the  same  ; 


I  am  far  away  to  the  time  that  was, 
Or  the  time  that  never'came. 

Sometimes  I  walk  in  the  paradise, 

That,  alas  !  was  not  to  be  ; 
Sometimes  I  sit  the  whole  night  long 

A  child  on  my  father's  knee  ; 

And  when  my  sweet  sad  fancies  run 

Unheeded  as  they  list, 
They  go  and  search  about  to  find 

The  things  my  life  has  missed. 

Aye  !  this  love  is  a  tyrant  always, 
And  whether  for  evil  or  good, 

Neither  comes   nor  goes   for  our  bid- 
ding, — 
But  I  've  done  the  best  I  could. 

And  Edgar 's  a  worthy  man  I  know, 
And  I  know  my  house  is  fine  ; 

But  I  never  shall  live  in  it,  mother, 
And  I  never  shall  make  it  mine  ! 


THE   FICKLE  DAY. 

LAST  night,  when  the  sweet  young  moon 
shone  clear 

In  her  hall  of  starry  splendor, 
I  said  what  a  maiden  loves  to  hear, 

To  a  maiden  true  and  tender. 
She  promised  to  walk  with  me  at  noon, 

In  the  meadow  red  with  clover  ; 
And  I  set  her  words  to  a  pleasant  tune, 

And  sang  them  over  and  over. 
So  awake  in  the  early  dawn  I  lay, 

And  heard  the  stir  and  humming 
The   glad  earth   makes  when   her   or- 
chestra 

Of  a  thousand  birds  is  coming. 

I  saw  the  waning  lights  in  the  skies 

Blown  out  by  the  breath  of  morn- 
ing ; 

And  the  morn  grow  pale  as  a  maid  who 
dies, 

When  her  loving  wins  but  scorning 
And  I  said,  the  day  will  never  rise  ; 

On  her  cloudy  couch  she  lingers, 
Still  pressing  the  lids  of  her  sweet  blue 
eyes 

Close  shut  with  her  rosy  fingers. 
But  she  rose  at  last,  and  stood  arrayed 

Like  a  queen  for  a  royal  crowning, 
And  I  thought  her  look  was  never  made 

For  changing  or  for  frowning. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


215 


But  alas  for  the  dreams  that  round  us 

play  ! 

For  the  plans  of  mortal  making  ! 
And  alas  for  the  false  and  fickle  day 
That  looked  so  fair  at  waking  ! 
For  suddenly  on  the  world  she  frowned, 
Till   the   birds   grew  still  in   their 

places, 
And  the  blossoms  turned  their  eyes  on 

the  ground 

To  hide  their  frightened  faces. 
And  the  light  grew  checkered  where  it 

lay, 

Across  the  hill  and  meadow, 
For  she  hid  her  sunny  hair  away 
Under  a  net  of  shadow. 

And  close  in  the  folds  of  a  cloudy  veil, 

Her  altered  beauty  keeping, 
She  breathed  a  low  and  lonesome  wail, 

And  softly  fell  a-weeping. 
And  now,  my  dream  of  the  time  to  be, 

My  beautiful  dream  is  over  ; 
For  no  maiden  will  walk  at  noon  with 
me 

In  the  meadow  red  with  clover. 
And  within  and  without  I  feel  and  see 

But  woeful,  weary  weather  ; 
Ah  !  wretched  day  ;  ah  !  wretched  me  — 

We  well  may  weep  together  J 


THE   MAID   OF  KIRCONNEL. 

FAIR  Kirtle,  hastening  to  the  sea, 

Through  lands  of  sunniest  green, 
But  for  thy  tencler  witchery 
"  Fair  Helen  of  Kirconnel  lea  " 
A  happier  fate  had  seen. 

And   wood-bower   sweet,   whose   vines 
displayed 

A  royal  wreath  of  flowers  ; 
Why  did  you  lure  the  dreaming  maid, 
So  oft  beneath  your  haunted  shade, 

To  pass  the  charmed  hours  ? 

For  hidden,  like  the  feathery  choir, 

There  from  the  noontide's  glance, 
She  lit  the  heart's  first  vestal  fire, 
And  fed  its  flame  of  soft  desire, 
With  dreams  of  old  romance. 

Poor,  frightened   doe,  that  sought  the 
shade 


And 


Of  that  sequestered  place, 
I  the  tender,  timid  maid, 


Blushing,  surprised,  and  half  afraid, 
To  meet  the  hunter's  face. 

Not  thine  the  fault,  but  thine  the  deed, 

Blind,  harmless  innocent, 
When  to  that  bosom,  doomed  to  bleed, 
With  cruel,  swift,  unerring  speed, 
The  fatal  arrow  went. 

Why  came  no  warning  voice  to  save, 

No  cry  upon  the  blast, 
When  Helen  fair,  and  Fleming  brave, 
Sat  on  the  dead  Kirconnel's  grave, 

And  spake,  and  kissed  their  last  ? 

O  Mary,  gone  in  life's  young  bloom, 

O  "  Mary  of  the  lea," 
Couldst  them  not  leave  one  hour  the 

tomb, 
To  save  her  from  that  hapless  doom, 

So  soon  to  sleep  by  thee  ? 

Vain,  vain,  to  say  what  might  have  been, 

Or  strive  with  cruel  Fate  ; 
Evil  the  world  hath  entered  in, 
And  sin  is  death,  and  death  is  sin, 
And  love  must  trust  and  wait. 

For  here  the  crown  of  lovers  true 

Still  hides  its  flowers  beneath  — 
The  sharpest  thorns  that  ever  grew, 
The  thorns  that  pierce  us  through  and 

through, 
And  make  us  bleed  to  death  ! 


SAINT  MACARIUS  OF  THE  DES- 
ERT. 

GOOD  Saint  Macarius,  full  of  grace, 

And  happy  as  none  but  a  saint  can  be, 
Abode  in  his  cell,  in  a  desert  place, 

With  only  angels  for  company  ; 
And  fasting  daily  till  vesper  time, 
And  praying  oft  till  the  hour  of  prime ; 

He  wept  so  freely  for  all  the  sin 
That  ever  had  stained  his  soul  below, 

That,  though  the  hue  of  his  guilt  had 

been 
As   scarlet,    it   must   have    changed  to 


The  Tempter  scarce  could   charm   his 

sight 
Who  came  transformed  to  an  angel  of 

light  ; 
The  demons  that  pursued  his  track 


216 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


He  sent  to  a  fiercer  torment  back ; 
And  he  wearied,  with  fast  and  penance 

grim, 

The  fisncls  that  were  sent  to  weary  him, 
Until  at  last  it  came  about 

That  he  vanquished   the   fiercest   of 

Satan's  brood, 

And  the  powers  of  darkness,  tired  out, 
Had  left  the  anchoret  unsubdued. 

Yet  I  marvel  what  they  could  have  been, 
The  sins  that  he  strove  to  wash  away  ; 
For  he  had  fled  from  the  haunts  of  men 
In  the  pure,  sweet  dawn  of  his  man- 
hood's day. 

But  surely  now  they  were  all  forgiven, 
For   alone    in   the   desert,    for   sixty 

years, 
He  had  eat  of  its  scant  herbs  morn  and 

even, 

And    black    bread,   moistened    with 
bitter  tears. 

Yet  so  cunning  and  subtle  is  the  mesh 

For  the  souls  of  the  unwary  laid, 
And   so   strong   is    the   power   of    the 

world  and  flesh, 

That  the  very  elect  have   been   be- 
trayed. 

And  therefore  even  our  holy  saint, 
When  fast  and  penance  and  watch 

were  done, 

Made  often  bitter  and  loud  complaint 
Of  the  artful  wiles  of  the  Evil  One. 
For  he  found  that  none  may  flee  from 

his  ire, 

Or  find  a  refuge  and  safe  retreat, 
In  the  time  when  Satan  doth  desire 
To    have    and    to   sift    the  soul    like 
wheat. 

Good  Saint  Macarius,  having  passed 
The    long,  hot  hours   of   the  day  in 

prayer, 
Rose  once  an  hungered,  after  a  fast 

That  was  long  for  even  a  saint  to  bear. 
And  looking  without,  where  the  shad- 
ows fell  — 
'T  was    a    sight    most   rare    in    that 

lonely  place  — 
Just  at  the  door  of  his  humble  cell 

He  saw  a  stranger  face  to  face, 
Who  greeted  him  in  a  tender  tone, 

That  fell  on  his  weary  heart  like  balm, 
As  graciously  from  out  his  own 

lie    dropped   in    the   hermit's    open 

palm 
A  cluster  plucked  from  a  fruitful  vine, 


Ripe  and  ruddy,  and  full  of  wine. 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  saint,  for  his  heart, 

was  glad, 
"  My  blessing   take   for  a   righteous 

'deed ; 

'T  is  the  very  gift  I  would  have  had 
For  one  in  his  sore  distress  and  need." 

Then,  seizing  a  staff  in  his  eager  hand, 
He  hurried  over  the  burning  sand, 
To  a  cell  where  a  holy  brother  lay, 
Wasting  and  dying  day  by  day, 
And  gave,  his  dying  thirst  to  slake, 
The  fruit 't  were  a  sin  for  himself  to  take. 

Alas  !  the  fainting  hermit  said, 

To  the  holy  brother  who  watched  his 

bed, 

Short  at  the  worst  can  be  my  stay 
In  this  vile  and  wretched  house  of  clay ; 
For  my  night  is  almost  done  below, 
And  at  break  of  day  I  must  rise  and  go, 
Shall  I  yield  at  last  the  flesh  to  please, 
And  lose  my  soul  for  a  moment's  ease  ? 
Nay,  take  this  gift  to  my  precious  son, 
Whose  weary  journey  is  scarce  begun, 
For  the  burden  of  penance  and  fast  and 

prayer 

Is  a  heavier  thing  for  the  young  to  bear. 
Therefore  his  sh  were  not  as  mine, 
Though  he  ate  the  pleasant  fruit  of  the 

vine. 

So,  before  another  hour  had  gone, 
The  will  of  the  dying  man  was  done  ; 
And   the   fair  "young  monk,   who   had 

come  to  dwell 

For  the  good  of  his  soul  in  a  desert-cell, 
Had  bound  the  sandals  on  his  feet, 

And  drawn  his  hood  about  his  head, 
And,  bearing  the  cluster  ripe  and  sweet, 

Was  crossing  the  desert  with  cheerful 
tread. 

For  he  said,  'T  were  well  that  an  aged 
saint 

Should  break  his  fast  with  fruits  like 

these  : 
But  I  in  my  vigor  dare  not  taint 

My  soul  with  self-indulgencies. 
And  the  holy  father  whom  I  seek, 

By  praying  and  fasting  oft  and  long, 
I  fear  me  makes  the  flesh  too  weak 
To  keep  the  spirit  brave  and  strong. 

At  the  day-break  Saint  Macarius  rose 
From  his   peaceful   sleep  with   con- 
science clear, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


217 


And  lo  !  the  youngest  monk  of  those 
Who  lived  in  a  desert-cell  drew  near  ; 

And,  greeting  his  father  in  the  Lord, 
Passed  reverently  the  open  door. 

And  again  the  hermit  had  on  his  board 
The   fruit   untouched   as  it   was   be- 
fore. 

Then  Saint  Macarius  joyful  raised 
His    thankful    eyes    and     hands    to 

heaven, 
And    cried    aloud :     "  The    saints    be 

praised 

That  unto  all  my  sons  was  given 
Such   strength   that,   tempted   as   they 

have  been, 
Not  a  single  soul  hath  yielded  to  sin." 

And  then,  though  he  had  not   broken 

fast, 

The  lure  was  firmly  put  aside  ; 
And  in  the  future,  as  in  the  past, 
A  self-denying  man  to  the  last, 

Good  Saint  Macarms  lived  and  died. 
And  he  never  tasted  the  fruit  of   the 

vine, 

Till  he  went  to  a  righteous  man's  re- 
ward, 
And   took  of   the   heavenly  bread  and 

wine 
New  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord. 


FAIR  ELEANOR. 

WHEN  the  birds  were  mating  and  build- 
ing 

To  the  sound  of  a  pleasant  tune, 
Fair  Eleanor  sat  on  the  porch  and  spun 

All  the  long  bright  afternoon. 
She  wound  the  flax  on  the  distaff, 

She  spun  it  fine  and  strong  ; 
She   sung   as   it    slipped   through    her 
hands,  and  this 

Was  the  burden  of  her  song  : 
"  I  sit  here  spinning,  spinning, 

And  my  heart  beats  joyfully, 
Though  my  lover  is  riding  away  from 
me 

To  his  home  by  the  hills  of  the  sea." 

When  the  shining  skeins  were  finished, 
And  the  loom  its  \vork  had  done, 

Fair  Eleanor  brought  her  linen  out 
To  spread  on  the  grass  in  the  sun. 

She  sprinkled  it  over  with  water, 
She  turned  and  bleached  it  white  ; 


And  still  she  sung,  and  the  burden 
Was  gay,  as  her  heart  was  light  : 

"  O  sun,  keep  shining,  shining  ! 
O  web,  bleach  white  for  me  ! 

For  now  my  lover  is  riding  back 

From  his  home  by  the  hills  of  the  sea." 

When  the  sun,  through  the  leaves  of 
autumn, 

Burned  with  a  dull-red  flame, 
Fair  Eleanor  had  made  the  robes 

To  wear  when  her  lover  came. 
And  she  stood  at  the  open  clothes-press, 

And  the  roses  burned  in  her  face, 
As  she  strewed  with  roses  and  laven- 
der 

Her  folded  linen  and  lace ; 
And  she  murmured  softly,  softly  : 

"  My  bridegroom  draws  near  to  me, 
And  we  shall  ride  back  together 

To  his  home  by  the  hills  of  the  sea." 

When  the  desolate  clouds  of  winter 

Shrouded  the  face  of  the  sun, 
Then  the  fair,  fair  Eleanor,  wedded, 
Was   dressed   in   the  robes  she  had 

spun. 
But  never  again  in  music 

Did  her  silent  lips  dispart, 
Though  her  lover  came  from  his  home 

by  the  sea, 

And  clasped  her  to  his  heart  ; 
Though    he   cried,   as    he    kissed   and 

kissed  her", 
Till  his  sobs  through  the  house  were 

heard  — 
Ah,  she  was  too  happy  where  she  had 

gone, 
I  ween,  to  answer  a  word  ! 


BREAKING  THE   ROADS. 

ABOUT  the  cottage,  cold  and  white. 
The  snow-drifts  heap  the  ground  ; 

Through  its  curtains  closely  drawn  to- 
night 
There  scarcely  steals  a  sound. 

The  task  is  done  that  patient  hands 
Through  all  the  clay  have  plied  ; 

And   the  flax-wheel,  with    its  loosened 

bands, 
Is  idly  set  aside. 

Above  the  hearth-fire's  pleasant  glare, 
Sings  now  the  streaming  spout ; 


218 


THE  POEMS  OF  P1KEBE   GARY. 


The  housewife,  at  her  evening  care, 
Is  passing  in  and  out. 

And  still  as  here  and  there  she  flits, 
With  cheerful,  bustling  sound, 

Musing,  her  daughter  silent  sits, 
With  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

A  maiden,  womanly  and  true, 
Sweet  as  the  mountain-rose  ; 

No  fairer  form  than  hers  ere  grew 
Amid  the  winter  snows. 

A  rosy  mouth,  and  o'er  her  brow 
Brown,  smoothly-braided  hair, 

Surely  the  youth  beside  her  now 
Must  covet  flower  so  fair. 

For  bashfulness  she  dare  not  meet 
His  eyes  that  keep  their  place, 

So  steadfastly  and  long  in  sweet 
Perusal  of  her  face.  .-#• 

Herself  is  Lucy's  only  charm, 
To  make  her  prized  or  sought ; 

And  Ralph  hath  but  the  goodly  farm 
Whereon  his  fathers  wrought. 

He,  with  his  neighbors,  toiling  slow 

To-day  till  sunset's  gleam, 
Breaking  a  road-track  through  the  snow, 

Has  urged  his  patient  team. 

They  came  at  morn  from  every  home, 
They  have  labored  cheerily  ; 

They  have  cut  a  way  through  the  snowy 

foam, 
As  a  good  ship  cuts  the  sea. 

And  when  his  tired  friends  were  gone, 

Their  pleasant  labors  o'er, 
Ralph  stayed  to  make  a  path,  alone, 

To  Lucy's  cottage-door. 

The  thankful  dame  her  friend  must  press 
To  share  her  hearth's  warm  blaze  : 

What  could  the  daughter  give  him  less 
Than  words  of  grateful  praise  ? 

And  now  the  board  has  given  its  cheer, 

The  eve  has  nearly  gone, 
Yet  by  the  hearth-fire  bright  and  clear 

The  youth  still  lingers  on. 

The  mother  rouses  from  her  nap, 
Her  task  awhile  she  keeps  ; 

At  last,  with  knitting  on  her  lap, 
Tired  nature  calmly  sleeps. 


Then  Lucy,  bringing  from  the  shelf 
Apples  that  mock  her  cheeks, 

Falls  working  busily  herself, 
And  half  in  whisper  speaks. 

And  Ralph,  for  very  bashfulness, 

Is  held  a  moment  mute  ; 
Then  drawing  near,  he  takes  in  his 

The  hand  that  pares  the  fruit. 

Then  Lucy  strives  to  draw  away 

Her  hand,  yet  kindly  too, 
And  half  in  his  she  lets  it  stay,  — 

She  knows  not  what  to  do. 

"  Darling,"  he  cries,  with  flushing  cheek, 

"  Forego  awhile  your  task  ; 
Lift  up  your  downcast  eyes  and  speak, 

'T  is  but  a  word  I  ask  !  " 

He  sees  the  color  rise  and  wane 

Upon  the  maiden's  face  ; 
Then  with  a  kiss  he  sets  again 

The  red  rose  in  its  place. 

The  mother  wakes  in  strange  surprise, 
'    And  wondering  looks  about, — 
"  How  careless,  Lucy  dear,"  she  cries  ; 
"  You  've  let  the  fire  go  out  !  " 

Then  Lucy  turned  her  face  away, 

She  did  not  even  speak  ; 
But  she  looked  as  if  the  live  coals  lay 

A-burning  in  her  cheek. 

"  Ralph,"   said  the   dame,  "  you   ne'er 

before 

Played  such  a  double  part : 
Have' you   made   the  way  both   to  my 

door 
And  to  my  daughter's  heart  ?  " 

"  I  've    tried    my    best,"    cried    happy 
Ralph, 

"  And  if  she  '11  be  my  wife, 
I  '11  make  a  pathway  smooth  and  safe 

For  my  darling  all  her  life  !  " 

All  winter  from  his  home  to  that 

Where  Lucy  lived  content, 
Along  a  path  made  hard  and  straight, 

Her  lover  came  and  went. 

And  when  spring  smiled  in  all  her  bow- 
ers, 

And  birds  sang  far  and  wide, 
He  trod  a  pathway  through  the  flowers, 

And  led  her  home  a  bride  ! 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


219 


THE  CHRISTMAS   SHEAF. 

"  Now,  good-wife,  bring  your  precious 

hoard," 

The  Norland  farmer  cried  ; 
"  And   heap  the  hearth,  and  heap  the 

board, 
.  For  the  blessed  Christmas-tide. 

"  And  bid  the  children  fetch,"  he  said, 
"  The  last  ripe  sheaf  of  wheat, 

And  set  it  on  the  roof  o'erhead, 
That  the  birds  may  come  and  eat. 

"  And  this  we  do  for  his  dear  sake, 

The  Master  kind  and  good, 
Who,    of    the    loaves    He    blest    and 
brake, 

Fed  all  the  multitude." 

Then  Fredrica,  and  Franz,  and  Paul, 
When  they  heard  their  father's  words, 

Put  up  the  sheaf,  and  one  and  all 
Seemed  merry  as  the  birds. 

Till  suddenly  the  maiden  sighed, 
The  boys  were  hushed  in  fear, 

As,  covering  all  her  face,  she  cried, 
"  If  Hansel  were  but  here  !  " 

And  when,  at  dark,  about  the  hearth 
They  gathered  still  and  slow, 

You  heard  no  more  the  childish  mirth 
So  loud  an  hour  ago. 

And  on  their  tender  cheeks  the  tears 
Shone  in  the  flickering  light  ; 

For  they  were  four  in  other  years 
Who  are  but  three  to-night. 

And  tears  are  in  the  mother's  tone  ; 

As  she  speaks,  she  trembles,  too  : 
"  Come,  children,  come,  for  the  supper 's 
done, 

And  your  father  waits  for  you." 

Then  Fredrica,  and  Franz,  and  Paul, 
Stood  each  beside  his  chair  ; 

The  boys  were  comely  lads,  and  tall, 
The  girl  was  good  and  fair. 

The  father's  hand  was  raised  to  crave 

A  grace  before  the  meat, 
When  the  daughter  spake ;  her  words 
were  brave 

But  her  voice  was  low  and  sweet  : 


"  Dear  father,  should  we  give  the  wheat 

To  all  the  birds  of  the  air  ? 
Shall  we  let  the  kite  and  the  raven  eat 

Such  choice  and  dainty  fare  ? 

"  For  if  to-morrow  from  our  store 

We  drive  them  not  away, 
The  good  little  birds  will  get  no  more 

Than  the  evil  birds  of  prey." 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  child,"  he  gravely  said, 
"  You  have  spoken  to  your  shame, 

For  the  good,  good  Father  overhead, 
"  Fteds  all  the  birds  the  same. 

"  He  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry, 
He  keeps  the  fowls  of  the  air  ; 

And  a  single  sparrow  cannot  lie 
On  the  ground  without  his  care." 

"  Yea,  father,  yea  ;  and  tell  me  this,"  — 
Her  words  came  fast  and  wild,  — 

"  Are  not  a  thousand  sparrows  less 
To  Him  than  a  single  child  ? 

"  Even   though  it  sinned  and  strayed 
from  home  ?" 

The  father  groaned  in  pain 
As  she  cried,  "  Oh,  let  our  Hansei  come 

And  live  with  us  again  ! 

"  I  know  he  did  what  was  not  right "  — 

Sadly  he  shook  his  head  ; 
"  If  he  knew  I  longed  for  him  to-night, 

He  would  not  come,"  he  said. 

"  He  went  from  me  in  wrath  and  pride  ; 

God  !  shield  him  tenderly  ! 
For  I  hear  the  wild  wind  cry  outside, 

Like  a  soul  in  agony." 

"  Nay,  it  is  a  soul  !  "     Oh,  eagerly 
The  maiden  answered  then  ; 

"  And,  father,  what  if  it  should  be  he, 
Come  back  to  us  again  !  " 

She  stops  —  the  portal  open  flies  ; 

Her  fear  is  turned  to  joy  : 
"  Hansei  !  "  the  startled  father  cries  ; 

And  the  mother  sobs,  "  My  boy  !  " 

'T  is  a  bowed  and  humbled  man  they 

greet, 

With  loving  lips  and  eyes, 
Who   fain  would  kneel  at  his   father's 

feet, 
But  he  softly  bids  him  rise  ; 


220 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  he  says,  "I  bless   thee,   O   mine 
own  ; 

Yea,  and  thou  shalt  be  blest ! " 
While  the  happy  mother  holds  her  son 

Like  a  baby  on  her  breast. 

Their  house  and  love  again  to  share 

The  Prodigal  has  come  ! 
And  now  there  will  be  no  empty  chair, 

Nor  empty  heart  in  their  home. 

And  they  think,  as  they  see  their  joy 

and  pride 

Safe  back  in  the  sheltering  fold, 
Of  the  child  that  was  born  at  Christmas- 
tide 
In  Bethlehem  of  old. 

And  all  the  hours  glide  swift  away 
With  loving,  hopeful  words, 

Till  the  Christmas   sheaf  at   break  of 

day- 
Is  alive  with  happy  birds  ! 


LITTLE  GOTTLIEB. 

A   CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

ACROSS  the  German  Ocean, 
In  a  country  far  from  our  own, 

Once,  a  poor  little  boy,  named  Gottlieb, 
Lived  with  his  mother  alone. 

They  dwelt  in  the  part  of  a  village 
Where    the    houses    were   poor   and 
small, 

But  the  home  of  little  Gottlieb, 
Was  the  poorest  one  of  all. 

He  was  not  large  enough  to  work, 
And  his  mother  could  do  no  more 

(Though  she  scarcely  laid  her  knitting 

down) 
Than  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

She  had  to  take  their  threadbare  clothes, 
And  turn,  and  patch,  and  darn  ; 

For  never  any  woman  yet 
Grew  rich  by  knitting  yarn. 

And  oft  at  night,  beside  her  chair, 
Would  Gottlieb  sit,  and  plan 

[NOTE  —  In  Norway  the  last  sheaf  from  the 
harvest  field  is  never  threshed,  but  it  is  always 
reserved  till  Christmas  Eve,  when  it  is  set  up  on 
the  loof  as  a  feast  for  the  hungry  birds.] 


The  wonderful  things  he  would  do  for 

her, 
When  he  grew  to  be  a  man. 

One  night  she  sat  and  knitted, 
And  Gottlieb  sat  and  dreamed, 

When  a  happy  fancy  all  at  once 
Upon  his  vision  beamed. 

'T  was  only  a  week  till  Christmas, 
And  Gottlieb  knew  that  then 

The  Christ-child,  who   was   born   that 

day, 
Sent  down  good  gifts  to  men. 

But  he  said,  "  He  will  never  find  us, 
Our  home  is  so  mean  and  small. 

And  we,  who  have  most  need  of  them, 
Will  get  no  gifts  at  all." 

When  all  at  once  a  happy  light 

Came  into  his  eyes  so  blue, 
And  lighted  up  his  face  with  smiles, 

As  he  thought  what  he  could  do. 

Next  day  when  the  postman's  letters 
Came  from  all  over  the  land  ; 

Came  one  for  the  Christ-child,  written 
In  a  child's  poor  trembling  hand. 

You  may  think  he  was  sorely  puzzled 

What  in  the  world  to  clo  ; 
So  he  went  to  the  Burgomaster, 

As  the  wisest  man  He  knew. 

And  when  they  opened  the  letter, 
They  stood  almost  dismayed 

That  such  a  little  child  should  dare 
To  ask  the  Lord  for  aid. 

Then  the  Burgomaster  stammered, 
And  scarce  knew  what  to  speak, 

And  hastily  he  brushed  aside 

A  drop,  like  a  tear,  from  his  cheek. 

Then  up  he  spoke  right  gruffly, 

And  turned  himself  about  : 
This  must  be  a  very  foolish  boy. 

And  a  small  one,  too,  no  doubt." 

But  when  six  rosy  children 
That  night  about  him  pressed, 

Poor,  trusting  little  Gottlieb 
Stood  near  him,  with  the  rest. 

And    he    heard    his    simple,   touching 

prayer, 
Through  all  their  noisy  play; 


BALLADS  AND   NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


221 


Though  he  tried  his  very  best  to  put 
The  thought  of  him  away. 

A  wise  and  learned  man  was  he, 
Men  called  him  good  and  just ; 

But   his   wisdom   seemed   like   foolish- 
ness, 
By  that  weak  child's  simple  trust. 

Now  when  the  morn  of  Christmas  came 
And  the  long,  long  week  was  done, 

Poor  Gottlieb,  who  scarce  could  sleep, 
Rose  up  before  the  sun, 

And  hastened  to  his  mother, 

But  he  scarce  might  speak  for  fear, 

When  he  saw  her  wondering  look,  and 

saw 
The  Burgomaster  near. 

He  was  n't  afraid  of  the  Holy  Babe, 
Nor  his  mother,  meek  and  mild ; 

But  he  felt  as  if  so  great  a  man 
Had  never  been  a  child. 

Amazed  the  poor  child  looked,  to  find 
The  hearth  was  piled  with  wood, 

And  the  table,  never  full  before, 
Was  heaped  with  dainty  food. 

Then   half    to   hide   from    himself   the 

truth 

The  Burgomaster  said, 
While  the  mother  blessed  him  on  her 

knees, 
And  Gottlieb  shook  for  dread  ; 

"  Nay,  give  no  thanks,  my  good  dame, 

To  such  as  me  for  aid, 
Be  grateful  to  your  little  son, 

And  the  Lord  to  whom  he  prayed  !  " 

Then  turning  round  to  Gottlieb, 
"  Your  written  prayer,  you  see, 

Come  not  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
It  only  came  to  me  ! 

"  'T  was  but  a  foolish  thing  you  did, 

As  you  must  understand  ; 
For   though   the   gifts   are   yours,   you 
know, 

You  have  them  from  my  hand." 

Then  Gottlieb  answered  fearlessly, 
Where  he  humbly  stood  apart, 

"But  the  Christ-child  sent  them  all  the 

same, 
He  put  the  thought  in  your  heart  ! " 


A  MONKISH  LEGEND. 

BEAUTIFUL  stories,  by  tongue  and  pen, 
Are  told  of  holy  women  and  men, 
Who   have   heard,   entranced  in   some 

lonely  cell, 

The  things  not  lawful  for  lip  to  tell ; 
And  seen,  when  their  souls  were  caught 

away, 
What  they  might  not  say. 

But  one  of  the  sweetest  in  tale  or  rhyme 
Is  told  of  a  monk  of  the  olden  time, 
Who  read  all  day  in  his  sacred  nook 
The  words  of  the  good  Saint  Austin's 

book, 
Where  he  tells  of  the  city  of  God,  that 

best 
Last  place  of  rest. 

Sighing,  the  holy  father  said, 
As  he  shut  the  volume  he  had  read  : 
"  Methinks  if  heaven  shall  only  be 
A  Sabbath  long  as  eternity, 
Its  bliss  will  at  last  be  a  weary  reign, 
And  its  peace  be  pain." 

So    he    wandered,   musing    under    his 

hood, 

Far  into  the  depths  of  a  solemn  wood  ; 
Where  a  bird  was  singing,  so  soft  and 

clear, 
That    he    paused     and    listened    with 

charmed  ear ; 

Listened,  nor  knew,  while  thus  intent, 
How  the  moments  went. 

But  the  music  ceased,  and  the  sweet 

spell  broke, 
And   as "  if    from   a   guilty   dream   he 

woke, 

That  holy  man,  and  he  cried  aghast, 
"  Mea  culpa  !  an  hour  has  passed, 
And  I  have  not  counted  my  beads,  nor 

prayed 
To  the  saints  for  aid  !  " 

Then,  amazed  he  fled  ;  but  his  horror 
grew, 

For  the  wood  was  strange,  and  the  path- 
way new  ; 

Yet,  with   trembling  step,   he  hurried 
on, 

Till  at  last  the  open  plain  was  won, 

Where,  grim  and  black,  o'er  the   vale 
around, 
he  convent  frowned. 


222 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


"  Holy  Saint  Austin  !  "  cried  the  monk, 
And  down  on  the  ground  for  terror  sunk  ; 
For  lo  !  the  convent,  tower,  and  cell, 
Sacred  crucifix,  blessed  bell, 
Had  passed  away,  and  in  their  stead, 
Was  a  ruin  spread. 

In  that  hour,  while  the  rapture  held  him 

fast, 

A  century  had  come  and  passed  ; 
And  he  rose  an  altered  man,  and  went 
His  way,    and    knew    what    the    vision 

meant  ; 

For  a  mighty  truth,  till  then  unknown, 
By  that  trance  was  shown. 

And  he  saw  how  the  saints,  with  their 

Lord,  shall  say, 

A  thousand  years  are  but  as  a  day  ; 
Since  bliss  itself  must  grow  from  bliss, 
And  holiness  from  holiness  ; 
And  love,  while  eternity's  ages  move, 
Cannot  tire  of  love  ! 


ARTHUR'S    WIFE. 

I  'M  getting  better,  Miriam,  though  it 
tires  me  yet  to  speak  ; 

And  the  fever,  clinging  to  me,  keeps  me 
spiritless  and  weak, 

And  leaves  me  with  a  headache  always 
when  it  passes  off  ; 

But  I'm  better,  almost  well  at  last,  ex- 
cept this  wretched  cough  ! 

I  should  have  passed  the  livelong  day 

alone  here  but  for  you  ; 
For  Arthur  never  comes  till  night,  he 

has  so  much  to  do  ! 
And  so  sometimes  I  lie  and  think,  till 

my  heart  seems  nigh  to  burst, 
Of  the  hope  that  lit  my  future,  when  I 

watched  his  coming  first. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  now  he  does  not 

seem  the  same  ; 
Perhaps  my  fancy  is  at  fault,  and  he  is 

not  to  blame  ;  ^ 

It  surely  cannot  be  because  he  has  me 

always  near, 
For  I  feared  and  felt  it  long  before  the 

time  he  brought  me  here. 

Yet  still,  I  said,  his  wife  will  charm  each 

shadow  from  his  brow, 
What  can  I  do  to  win  his  love,  or  prove 

my  loving  now  ?  , 


So  I  waited,  studying  patiently  his  every 

look  and  thought ; 
But  I  fear  that  I  shall  never  learn  to 

please  him  as  I  ought. 

I  've  tried  so  many  ways,  to  smooth  his 

path  where 'it  was  rough, 
But  I  always  either  do  too  much,  or  fail 

to  do  enough ; 
And  at  times,  as  if  it  wearied  him,  he 

pushes  off  my  arm  — 
The  very  things  that  used  to  please  have 

somehow  lost  their  charm. 

Once,  when  I  wore  a  pretty  gown,  a 

gown  he  used  to  praise, 
I  asked  him,  laughing,  if  I  seemed  the 

sweetheart  of  old  days. 
He  did  not  know  the  dress,  and  said,  he 

never  could  have  told, 
'T  was  not  that  unbecoming  one,  which 

made  me  look  so  old  ! 

I  cannot  tell   how  anything  I  do  may 

seem  to  him. 
Sometimes  he  thinks  me  childish,  and 

sometimes  stiff  and  prim  ; 
Yet  you  must  not  think  I  blame  him, 

dear  ;  I  could  not  wrong  him  so  — 
He  is  very  good  to  me,  and  I  am  happy, 

too,  you  know  ! 

But  I  am  often  troublesome,  and  sick 

too  much,  I  fear, 
And  sometimes  let  the  children  cry  when 

he  is  home  to  hear. 
Ah  me  !  if  I  should  leave  them,  with  no 

other  care  than  his  ! 
Yet  he  says  his  love  is  wiser  than  my 

foolish  fondness  is. 

I  think  he  'd  care  about  the  babe.  I 
called  him  Arthur,  too  — 

Hoping  to  please  him  when  I  said,  I 
named  him,  love,  for  you  ! 

He  never  noticed  any  child  of  mine,  ex- 
cept this  one, 

So  the  girls  would  only  have  to  do  as 
they  have  always  done. 

Give  me  my  wrapper,  Miriam.  Help 
me  a  litttle,  dear  ! 

When  Arthur  comes  home,  vexed  and 
tired,  he  must  not  find  me  here. 

Why,  I  can  even  go  down-stairs  :  I  al- 
ways make  the  tea. 

He  does  not  like  that  any  one  should 
wait  on  him  but  me. 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


223 


He  never  sees  me  lying  down  when  he 

is  home,  you  know, 
And  I  seldom  tell  him  how  I  feel,  he 

hates  to  hear  it  so  ; 
Yet  I  'm  sure  he  grieves  in  secret  at  the 

thought  that  I  may  die, 
Though  he  often  laughs  at  me,  and  says, 

"  You  're  stronger  now  than  I." 

Perhaps  there  are  some  men  who  love 

more  than  they  ever  say  : 
He  does  not  show  his  feelings,  but  that 

may  not  be  his  way. 
Why,  how  foolishly  I  'm  talking,  when 

I  know  he  's  good  and  kind  ! 
But  we  women  always  ask  too  much ; 

more  than  we  ever  find. 

My  slippers,  Miriam  !     No,  not  those  ; 

bring  me  the  easy  pair. 
I  surely  heard  the  door  below  ;  I  hear 

him  on  the  stair  ! 
There  comes  the  old,  sharp  pain  again, 

that  almost  makes  me  frown  ; 
And   it   seems  to   me   I   always  cough 

when  I  try  to  keep  it  down. 

Ah,  Arthur  !  take  this  chair  of  mine  ;  I 

feel  so  well  and  strong  ; 
Besides,  I  am  getting  tired  of  it  —  I  've 

sat  here  all  day  long. 
Poor  dear  !  you  work  so  hard  for  me, 

and  I  'm  so  useless,  too  ! 
A    trouble    to    myself,   and,   worse,    a 

trouble  now  to  you. 


GRACIE. 

GKACIE  rises  with  a  light 

In  her  clear  face  like  the  sun, 
Like  the  regal,  crowned  sun 

That  at  morning  meets  her  sight : 
Mirthful,  merry  little  one, 
Happy,  hopeful  little  one  ; 

What  has  made  her  day  so  bright  ? 

Who  her  sweet  thoughts  shall  divine, 
As  she  draweth  water  up, 
Water  from  the  well-spring  up  ? 

What  hath  made  the  draught  so  fine, 
That  she  drinketh  of  the  cup, 
Of  the  dewy,  dripping  cup, 

As  if  tasting  royal  wine  ? 

Tripping  up  and  down  the  stair, 
Hers  are  pleasant  tasks  to-day, 
Hers  are  easy  tasks  to-day  ; 


Done  without  a  thought  of  care, 

Something  makes  her  work  but  play, 
All  her  work  delightful  play, 

And  the  time  a  holiday. 

And  her  lips  make  melody, 

Like  a  silver-ringing  rill, 

Like  a  laughing,  leaping  rill : 
Then  she  breaks  off  suddenly  ; 

But  her  heart  seems  singing  still, 

Beating  out  its  music  still, 
Though  it  beateth  silently. 

And  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  ; 
Only  to  herself  she  speaks, 
Very  low  and  soft  she  speaks. 

As  she  plants  the  scarlet  pinks, 

Something  plants  them  in  her  cheeks, 
Set  them  blushing  in  her  cheeks. 

How  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  ! 

To  a  bruised  vine  she  goes  ; 

Tenderly  she  does  her  part, 

Carefully  she  does  her  part, 
As  if,  while  she  bound  the  rose, 

She  were  binding  up  a  heart, 

Binding  up  a  broken  heart. 
Doth  bhe  think  but  of  the  rose  ? 

Bringing  odorous  leaf  and  flower 
To  her  bird  she  comes  elate, 
Comes  as  one,  with  step  elate, 

Cometh  in  a  happy  hour 
To  a  true  and  tender  mate. 
Doth  she  think  of  such  a  mate  ? 

Is  she  trimming  cage  and  bower  ? 

How  she  loves  the  flower  she  brings  ! 
See  her  press  her  lips^to  this, 
Press  her  rosy  mouth  to  this, 

In  a  kiss  that  clings  and  clings. 
Hath  the  maiden  learned  that  kiss, 
Learned  that  lingering,  loving  kiss, 

From  such  cold  insensate  things  ? 

What  has  changed  our  pretty  one  ? 

A  new  light  is  in  her  eyes, 

In  her  downcast,  drooping  eyes, 
As  she  walks  beneath  the  moon. 

What    has    waked    those    piteous 
sighs, 

Waked  her  touching,  tender  sighs  ? 
Has  love  found  her  out  so  soon  ? 

Even  her  mother  wonderingly 

Saith  :  "  How  strange  our  darling 

seems, 
How  unlike  herself  she  seems." 


224 


THE  POEMS  OF  PH(EBE   CARY. 


And  I  answer  :  "  Oft  we  see 
Women  living  as  in  dreams, 
When  love  comes  into  their  dreams. 

W  hat  if  hers  such  dreaming  be  ? " 

But  she  says,  undoubtingly : 
"  Whatsoever  else  it  mean, 
This  it  surely  cannot  mean. 

Gracie  is  a  babe  to  me, 

Just  a  child  of  scarce  sixteen, 
And  it  seems  but  yestere'en 

That  she  sat  upon  my  knee." 

Ah  wise  mother  !  if  you  proved 
Lover  never  crossed  her  way, 
I  would  think  the  self-same  way. 

Ever  since  the  world  has  moved, 
Babes  seemed  women  in  a  day  ; 
And,  alas  !  and  welladay  ! 

Men  have  wooed  and  maidens  loved  ! 


POOR  MARGARET 

WE  always  called  her  "  poor  Margaret," 
And  spoke   about   her   in   mournful 

phrase  ; 

And  so  she  comes  to  my  memory  yet 
As  she  seemed  to  me  in  my  childish 
days. 

For  in  that  which  changing,  waxeth  old, 
In  things  which  perish,  we  saw  her 

poor, 

But  we  never  saw  the  wealth  untold, 
She  kept  where  treasures  alone  en- 
dure. 

We  saw  her  wrinkled,  and  pale,  and 

thin, 
And  bowed  with  toil,  but  we  could 

not  see 
That  her   patient  spirit  grew  straight 

within, 
In  the  power  of  its  upright  purity. 

Over  and  over,  every  day, 

Bleaching  her  linen  in  sun  and  rain, 
We  saw  her  turn  it  until  it  lay, 

As  white  on  the  grass  as  the  snow 
had  lain ; 

But  we  could  not  see  how  her  Father's 
smile, 

Shining  over  her  spirit  there, 
Was  whitening  for  her  all  the  while 

The  spotless  raiment  his  people  wear. 


She  crimped  and   folded,  smooth  and 

nice, 
All    our   sister's    clothes,   when    she 

came  to  wed,  — 

( Alas  !  that  she  only  wore  them  twice, 
Once   when   living,   and   once   when 
dead!) 

And  we  said,  she  can  have  no  wedding- 
day; 
Speaking     sorrowfully,     under     GUI 

breath  ; 
While  her  thoughts  were  all  where  they 

give  away 

No    brides   to   lovers,   and    none   to 
death. 

Poor  Margaret !  she  sleeps  now  under 

the  sod, 
And  the  ills  of  her  mortal  life  are 

past; 
But  heir  with  her  Saviour,  and  heir  of 

God, 

She  is  rich  in  her  Father's  House  at 
last. 


LADY    MARJORY. 

THE  Lady  Marjory  lay  on  her  bed, 
Though    the   clock    had    struck   the 

hour  of  noon, 
And  her  cheek  on  the  pillow  burned  as 

red 
As  the  bleeding  heart  of   a  rose  in 

June  ; 
Like  the  shimmer  and  gleam  of  a  golden 

mist 
Shone  her  yellow  hair  in  the  chamber 

dim  ; 

And  a  fairer  hand  was  never  kissed 
Than  hers,  with  its  fingers  white  and 
slim. 

She  spake  to  her  women,  suddenly,  — 
"  I  have  lain  here  long  enough,"  she 

said ; 

"  Lain  here  a  year,  by  night  and  day, 
And  I  hate  the  pillow,  and  hate  the 

bed. 
So  carry  me  where  I  used  to  sit, 

I  am  not  much  for  your  arms  to  hold  ; 
Strange    phantoms    now    through    my 

fancy  flit, 

And  my  head  is  hot  and  my  feet  are 
cold  ! " 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


225 


They  sat    her   up   once    more    in   her 

chair, 
And    Alice,   behind    her,   grew   pale 

with  dread 
As  she  combed  and  combed  her  lady's 

hair, 

For  the  fever  never  left  her  head. 
And   before    her,  Rose    on    a   humble 

seat 
Sat,   but    her  young    face    wore    no 

smile, 
As  she  held   in  her  lap  her  mistress' 

feet 

And   chafed    them   tenderly   all    the 
while. 

"  Once  I  saw,"  said  the  lady,  "  a  saintly 

nun, 
Who   turned   from   the  world   and   its 

pleasures  vain  ;  — 
When  they  clipped  her  tresses,  one  by 

one, 
How  it  must  have  eased  her  aching 

brain  ! 
If  it  ached  and  burned  as  mine  does 

now, 
And  they  cooled  it  thus,  it  was  worth 

the  price  ;  — 

Good  Alice,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow, 
For  my  head  is  fire  and  my  feet  are 


So  the  patient  Alice  stood  in  her  place 

For  hours  behind  her  mistress'  chair, 
Bathing  her  fevered  brow  and  face, 

Parting  and  combing  her  golden  hair  : 
And    Rose,    whose    cheek    belied    her 
name, 

Sitting  before  her,  awed  and  still, 
Kept  at  her  hopeless  task  the  same 

Till  she  felt,  through  all  her  frame, 
the  chill. 

"  How  my  thoughts,"  the  Lady  Marjory 

said, 

"  Go  slipping  into  the  past  once  more  ; 
As   the   beads   we   are   stringing    slide 

down  a  thread, 
,    When   we   drop   the   end   along   the 

floor  : 
Only  a  moment  past,  they  slid 

Thus    into    the    old    time,    dim    and 

sweet ; 
I  was  where  the  honeysuckles  hid 

My  head  and  the  daisies  hid  my  feet. 
I  heard  my  Philip's  step  again, 

I  felt  the  thrill  of   his   kiss  on   my 
brow ; 

'5 


Ah !    my   cheek   was    not    so   crimson 

then, 

Nor  my  feet  in  the  daisies  cold  as 
now  ! 

"  Dizzily  still  my  senses  swim, 

I  am  "far  away  in  a  fairy  land  ; 
To  the  night  when  first  I  danced  with 

him, 
And  felt  his  look,  as  he  touched  my 

hand  ; 
Then  my  cheeks  were  bright  with  the 

flush  and  glow 
Of  the  joy  that  made  the  hours  so 

fleet ; 
And  my  feet  were  rosy  with  warmth  I 

know, 
As  time  to  the  music  they  lightly  beat. 

"  'T  is  strange  how  the  things  I  remem- 
ber, seem 

Blended  together,  and  nothing  plain  ; 
A  dream  is  like  truth,  and  truth  like  a 

dream, 

Wilh  this  terrible  fever  in  my  brain. 
But  of  all  the  visions  that  ever  I  had, 
There    is  one  returns  to  plague  me 

most ; 
If  it  were  not  false  it  would  drive  me 

mad, 
Haunting  me  thus,  like  an  evil  ghost. 

"  It  came  to  me  first  a  year  ago, 

Though  I  never  have  told  a  soul  be- 
fore, 
But  I  dreamed,  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 

you  know, 

That  under  the  vines  beside  the  door, 
I  watched  for  a  step  I  did  not  hear, 

Stayed  for  a  kiss  I  did  not  feel ; 
But  I  heard  a  something   hiss  in  my 

ear 

Words  that  I  shudder  still  to  reveal. 
I  made  no  sound,  and  I  gave  no  start, 
But  I  stood  as  the  dead  on  the  sea- 
floor  stand, 
While  the  demon's  words  fell  slow  on 

my  heart 

As  burning  drops  from  a  torturer's 
hand. 

" '  Your  Philip  stays,'  it  said,  '  to-night, 
Where  dark  eyes  hold  him  with  magic 

spell ; 
Eyes  from   the  stars   that  caught  their 

light, 

Not  from  some  pretty  blue  flower's 
bell  ! 


226 


THE  POEMS  OF  PIKE  BE    GARY. 


With  raven  tresses  he  waits  to  play, 
They  have  bound  him  fast  as  a  bird 

in  a  snare, 
Did  you  think  to  hold  him  more  than  a 

day 

In   the  feeble   mesh   of  your  yellow 
hair  ? 

" '  Flowers   or   pearls   in   your   tresses 

twist, 
As   your  fancy  suits  you,   smile    or 

sigh  ; 
Or  give  your  dainty  hand  to  be  kissed 

By  other  lips,  and  he  will  not  die  : 
Hide  your  eyes  in  the  veil  of  a  nun, 
Weep  till  the  rose  in  your  cheek  is 

dim  ; 
Or  turn  to  any  beneath  the  sun, 

Henceforth  it  is  all  the  same  to  him  ! ' 

"  This  was  before  I  took  my  bed  ;  — 
Do  you  think  a  dream  could  make  me 

'ill, 
Could  put  a  fever  in  my  head, 

And    touch    my    feet    with   an    icy 

•     chill  ? 

Yet  I  've  hardly  been  myself  I  know 
At   times   since  then,  for  before  my 

eyes 

The  wildest  visions  come  and  go, 
Full  of  all  wicked  and  cruel  lies. 

"  Once  the  peal  of  marriage-bells,  with- 
out, 

Fell,  or  seemed  to  fall  on  my  ear  ; 
And   I    thought   you  went,  and   softly 

shut 
The   window,   so   that   I   might   not 

hear  ; 
That  you   turned  from   my  eager  look 

away, 
And   sadly  bent  your   eyes    on   the 

ground, 

As  if  you  said,  't  is  his  wedding-day, 
And  her  heart  will  break  if  she  hears 
the  sound. 

"  And    dreaming    once,    I   dreamed   I 

woke, 
And    heard   you   whisper,   close    at 

hand. 

Men  said,  Sir  Philip's  heart  was  broke, 
Since  he  gave  himself  for  his  wife's 

broad  land  ; 
That   he  smiled  on  none,  but  frowned 

instead, 

As  he  stalked  through  his  halls,  like  a 
ghost  forlorn ; 


And  the  nurse  who  had  held  him,  a 

baby,  said, 

He  had  better  have  died  in  the  day 
he  was  born  ! " 

So,  till  the  low  sun,  fading,  cast 

Across  her  chamber  his  dying  beams, 
The  Lady  Marjory  lived  in  the  past, 

Telling  her  women  of  all  her  dreams. 
Then   she   changed  ;  —  "I   am   almost 

well,"  she  said, 

"  I  feel  so  strangely  free  from  pain  ; 
Oh,  if   only  the  fever  would  leave  my 

head, 

And  if  only  my  feet  were  warm  again  ! 
And  something  whispers  me,  clear  and 

low, 

I  shall  soon  be  done  with  lying  there, 
So  to-morrow,  when  I  am  better,  you 

know, 

You    must    come,   good  Alice,   and 
dress  my  hair. 

"  We  will  give   Sir  Philip  a  glad  sur- 
prise, 
He  will   come,  I  know,  at  morn  or 

night  ; 
And  I  want  the  help  of  your  hands  and 

eyes 

To  dress  me  daintily  all  in  white ; 
Bring  snowy  lilies  for  my  hair  ;  — 

And,  Rose,  when  all  the  rest  is  done, 
Take  from  my  satin  slippers  the  pair 
That  are  softest  and  whitest,  and  put 

them  on. 
But  take  me  to  bed  now,  where  in  the 

past 
You  have  placed  me  many  a  time  and 

oft; 
I  am  so  tired,  I  think  at  last 

I  shall  sleep,  if  the  pillow  is  cool  and 
soft." 

So  the  patient  Alice  took  her  head, 
And   the   sweet  Rose   took  her  mis- 
tress' feet, 
And   they  laid    her    tenderly    on    the 

bed, 
And     smoothed     the     pillow,     and 

smoothed  the  sheet. 
Then  she  wearily  closed  her  eyes,  they 

say, 
On  this  world,  with  all  its  sorrow  and 

sin  ; 
And   her   head   and   her   heart   at   the 

break  of  day, 

Were  as  cold  as  ever  her  feet  had 
been! 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


227 


THE   OLD    MAN'S   DARLING. 

So  I'm  "crazy,"  in  loving   a   man   of 

three-score  ; 
Why,  I  never  had  come  to  my  senses 

before, 
But  I  'm    doubtful    of  yours,  if  you  're 

thinking  to  prove 
My  insanity,  just  by  the  fact  of  my  love. 

You  would  like  to  know  what  are  his 
wonderful  wiles  ? 

Only  delicate  praises,  and  flattering 
smiles  ! 

'T  is  no  spell  of  enchantment,  no  magi- 
cal art, 

But  the  way  he  says  "darling,"  that 
goes  to  my  heart. 

Yes,    he 's   "  sixty,"    I    cannot    dispute 

with  you  there, 
But  you  'd  make  him  a  hundred,  I  think, 

if  you  dare  ; 
And  I  'in  glad  all  his  folly  of  first  love 

is  past, 
Since  I  'm  sure,  of  the  two,  it  is  best  to 

be  last. 

"  His  hair  is  as  white  as  the  snow-drift," 

you  say ; 
Then  I  never  shall  see  it  change  slowly 

to  gray ; 
But  I  almost  could  wish,  for  his  dear 

sake  alone, 
That  my  tresses  were  nearer  the  hue  of 

his  own. 

"  He  can't  see  ;  "  then  I  '11  help  him  to 
see  and  to  hear, 

If  it's  needful,  you  know,  I  can  sit  very 
near; 

And  he  's  young  enough  yet  to  inter- 
pret the  tone 

Of  a  heart  that  is  beating  up  close  to 
his  own. 

I  "  must  aid  him  ;  "  ah  !  that  is  my  pleas- 
ure and  pride, 

I  should  love  him  for  this  if  for  nothing 
beside  ; 

And  though  I  've  more  reasons  than  I 
can  recall, 

Yet  the  one  that  "  he  needs  me "  is 
strongest  of  all. 

So,  if  I  'm  insane,  you  will  own,  I  am 
sure, 


That  the  case  is  so  hopeless  it 's  past 

any  cure  ; 
And,  besides,  it  is  acting  no  very  wise 

part, 
To  be  treating  the  head  for  disease  of 

the  heart. 

And  if  anything  could  make  a  woman 
believe 

That  no  dream  can  delude,  and  no  fancy 
deceive  ; 

That  she  never  knew  lover's  enchant- 
ment before, 

It 's  being  the  darling  of  one  of  three- 


A   TENT   SCENE. 

OUR  generals  sat  in  their  tent  one  night, 

On  the  Mississippi's  banks, 
Where  Vicksburg  sullenly  still  held  out 

Against  the  assaulting  ranks. 

They   could    hear    the  firing    as    they 

talked, 

Long  after  set  of  sun  ; 
And  the  blended  noise  of   a   thousand 

guns 
In  the  distance  seemed  as  one. 

All  at  once  Sherman  started  to  his  feet, 

And  listened  to  the  roar, 
His  practiced  ear  had  caught  a  sound, 

That  he  had  not  heard  before. 

"  They  have  mounted  another  gun  on 
the  walls  ; 

'T  is  new,"  he  said,  "  I  know  ; 
I  can  tell  the  voice  of  a  gun,  as  a  man 

Can  tell  the  voice  of  his  foe  ! 

"  What  !   not  a  soul  of  you  hears  but 
me  ? 

No  matter,  I  am  right  ; 
Bring  me  my  horse  !    I  must  silence  this 

Before  I  sleep  to-night !  " 

He  was  gone  ;  and  they  listened  to  the 

ring 

Of  hoofs  on  the  distant  track  ; 
Then  talked  and  wondered  for  a  while, — 


In  an  hour  he 


back. 


Well,  General  !  what  is  the  news  ? " 

they  cried, 
As  he  entered  flushed  and  worn  ; 


228 


THE   POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


"  We  have  picked  their  gunners  off,  and 

the  gun 
Will  be  dislodged  at  morn  !  " 


THE  LADY  JAQUELTNE. 

"  FALSE  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet, 

I  care  not  for  the  rest, 
The  lover  that  knelt  last  night  at  my  feet 

Was  the  bravest  and  the  best. 
Let  them  perish  all,  for  their  power  has 
waned, 

And  their  glory  waxed  dim  ; 
They  were  well  enough  while  they  lived 
and  reigned, 

But  never  was  one  like  him  ! 
And  never  one  from  the  past  would  I 
bring 

Again,  and  call  him  mine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  king!  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  In  the  old,  old  days,  when  life  was 
new, 

And  the  world  upon  me  smiled, 
A  pretty,  dainty  lover  I  had, 

Whom  I  loved  with  the  heart  of  a 

child. 
When  the  buried  sun  of  yesterday 

Comes  back  from  the  shadows  dim, 
Then  may  his  love  return  to  me, 

And  the  love  I  had  for  him  ! 
But  since  to-day  hath  a  better  thing 

To  give,  I  '11  ne'er  repine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  And  yet  it  almost  makes  me  weep, 

Aye  !  weep,  and  cry,  alas  ! 
When  I  think  of  one  who  lies  asleep 

Down  under  the  quiet  grass. 
For  he  loved  me  well,  and  I  loved  again, 

And  low  in  homage  bent, 
And  prayed  for  his  long  and  prosperous 
reign, 

In  our  realm  of  sweet  content. 
But  not  to  the  dead  may  the  living  cling, 

Nor  kneel  at  an  empty  shrine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King!  '' 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  Once,  caught  by  the  sheen  of  stars  and 
lace, 

I  bowed  for  a  single  day, 
To  a  poor  pretender,  mean  and  base, 

Unfit  for  place  or  sway. 


That  must  have  been  the  work  of  a  spell, 
For  the  foolish  glamour  fled, 

As  the  sceptre  from  his  weak  hand  fell, 
And  the  crown  from  his  feeble  head ; 

But  homage  true  at  last  I  bring 
-  To  this  rightful  lord  of  mine,  — 

The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 
Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  By  the  hand  of  one  I  held  most  dear, 

And  called  my  liege,  my  own  ! 
I  was  set  aside  in  a  single  year, 

And  a  new  queen  shares  his  throne. 
To  him  who  is  false,  and  him  who  is  wed, 

Shall  I  give  my  fealty  ? 
Nay,  the  dead  one  is  not  half  so  dead 

As  the  false  one  is  to  me  ! 
My  faith  to  the  faithful  now  I  bring, 

The  faithless  I  resign  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 

"  Yea,  all  my  lovers  and  kings  that  were 

Are  dead,  and  hid  away, 
In  the  past,  as  in  a  sepulchre. 

Shut  up  till  the  judgment  day. 
False  or  fickle,  or  weak  or  wed, 

They  are  all  alike  to  me  ; 
And  mine  eyes  no  more  can  be  misled,— 

They  have  looked  on  royalty  ! 
Then  bring  me  wine,  and  garlands  bring 

For  my  king  of  the  right  "divine  ;  — 
The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Jaqueline. 


THE  WIFE'S  CHRISTMAS. 

How  can  you  speak  to  me  so,  Charlie  ! 

It  is  n't  kind,  nor  right  ; 
You  would  n't  have  talked  a  year  ago, 

As  you  have  done  to-night. 

You  are  sorry  to  see  me  sit  and  cry, 
Like  a  baby  vexed,  you  say  ; 

When  you  did  n't  know  I  wanted  a  gift, 
Nor  think  about  the  day  ! 

But  I  'm  not  like  a  baby,  Charlie, 

Crying  for  something  fine ; 
Only  a  loving  woman  pained, 

Could  shed  such  tears  as  mine. 

For  every  Christmas  time  till  now  — 

And  that  is  why  I  grieve  — 
It  was  you  that  wanted  to  give,  Charlie, 

More  than  I  to  receive. 


BALLADS  AiVD  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


229 


And  all  I  ever  had  from  you 

I  have  carefully  laid  aside  ; 
From  the  first  June  rose  you  pulled  for 
me, 

To  the  veil  I  wore  as  a  bride. 

And  I  would  n't  have  cared  to-night, 

Charlie, 

How  poor  the  gift  or  small  ; 
If  you  only  had  brought  me  something 

to  show 
That  you  thought  of  me  at  all. 

The  merest  trifle  of  any  kind, 
That  I  could  keep  or  wear  ; 

A  flimsy  bit  of  lace  for  my  neck, 
Or  a  ribbon  for  my  hair. 

Some  pretty  story  of  lovers  true, 
Or  a  book  of  pleasant  rhyme  ; 

A  flower,  or  a  holly  branch,  to  mark 
The  blessed  Christmas  time. 

But  to  be  forgotten,  Charlie  ! 

'T  is  that  that  brings  the  tear  ; 
And  just  to  think,  that  I  have  n't  been 

Your  wife  but  a  single  year  ! 


COMING  ROUND. 

'T  is  all  right,  as  I  knew  it  would  be  by 

and  by  ; 
We   have  kissed  and  made   up  again, 

Archie  and  I  ; 
And  that  quarrel,  or  nonsense,  whatever 

you  will, 
I  think  makes  us  love  more  devotedly 

still. 

The  trouble  was  all  upon  my  side,  you 

know  ; 
I  'm  exacting  sometimes,  rather  foolishly 

so  ; 
And   let   any   one  tell  me  the    veriest 

lie 
About  Archie,  I  'm  sure  to  get  angry 

and  cry. 

Things  will  go  on  between  us  again  just 

the  same,  — 
For  as  he  explains  matters  he  was  n't  to 

blame  ; 
But  't   is   useless  to  tell  you  ;    I  can't 

make  you  see 
How  it  was,  quite  as  plainly  as  he  has 

made  me. 


You  thought  "  I  would  make  him  come 

round  when  we  met  !  " 
You  thought  "  there  were  slights  I  could 

never  forget ! " 
Oh  you  did  !  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear, 

to  your  face, 
Tha't  your  thinking  these  things  does  n't 

alter  the  case  ! 

You  "  can  tell  what  I  said  !  "     I  don't 

wish  you  to  tell  * 
You  know  what  a  temper  I  have,  very 

well  ; 
That    I  'm    sometimes    unjust    to    my 

friends  who  are  best  ; 
~Butyou  've  turned  against  Archie   the 

same  as  the  rest  ! 

"  Why  has  n't  he  written  ?   what  kept 

him  so  still  ?  "  — 
His  silence  was  sorely  against  his  own 

will  ; 
He  has  faults,  that  I  own;  but  he,  he 

would  n't  deceive  ; 
He  was  ill,  or  was  busy,  —  was  both,  I 

believe  ! 

Did  he  flirt  with  that  lady?    I  s'pose  I 

should  say, 
Why,    yes,  —  when    she    threw   herself 

right  in  the  way  ; 
He  was  led  off,  was  foolish,  but  that  is 

the  worst,  — 
And  she  was  to  blame  for  it  all,  from 

the  first. 

And  he  's  so  glad  to  come  back  again, 

and  to  find 
A  woman  once  more  wiih  a  heart  and 

a  mind ; 
For    though    others    may    please    and 

amuse  for  an  hour,  . 
I  hold  all  his  future  —  his  life  —  in  my 

power ! 

And  now,  if  things  don't  go  persistently 
wrong, 

Our  destinies  cannot  be  parted  for 
long ; 

For  he  said  he  would  give  me  his  fort- 
une and  name,  — 

Not  those  words,  but  he  told  me  what 
meant  just  the  same. 

So  what  could  I  do,  after  all,  at  the 

last, 
But  just  ask  him  to  pardon  my  doubts 

in  the  past ; 


230 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


For  though  he  had  been  wrong,  I  should 

still,  all  the  same, 
Rather  take  it  myself  than  let  him  bear 

the  blame. 

And,  poor  fellow !  he  felt  so  bad,  I 
could  not  bear 

To  drive  him  by  cruelty  quite  to  de- 
spair ; 

And  so,  to  confess  the  whole  truth, 
when  I  found 

He  was  willing  to  do  so  himself,  /came 
round  ! 


THE    LAMP   ON   THE    PRAIRIE. 

THE  grass  lies  flat  beneath  the  wind 
That  is  loosed  in  its  angry  might, 

Where  a  man  is  wandering,  faint  and 

blind, 
On  the  prairie,  lost  at  night. 

No  soft,  sweet  light  of  moon  or  star, 
No  sound  but  the  tempest's  tramp  ; 

When  suddenly  he  sees  afar 
The  flame  of  a  friendly  lamp! 

And  hope  revives  his  failing  strength, 
He  struggles  on,  succeeds,  — 

He  nears  a  humble  roof  at  length, 
And  loud  for  its  shelter  pleads. 

And  a  voice  replies,  "Whoever  you  be 
That  knock  so  loud  at  my  door, 

Come  in,  come  in  !  and  bide  with  me 
Till  this  dreadful  storm  is  o'er. 

"And  no  wilder,  fiercer  time  in  March 
Have  I  seen  since  I  was  born  ; 

If  a  wolf  for  shelter  sought  my  porch 
To-night,  he  might  lie  till  morn/' 

As  he  enters,  there  meets  the  stranger's 

gaze 

One  bowed  by  many  a  year. — 
A  woman,  alone  by  the  hearth's  bright 

blaze, 
Tending  her  lamp  anear. 

"  Right  glad  will  I  come,"  he  said,  "for 

the  sweep 

Of  the  wind  is  keen  and  strong  ; 
But  tell  me,  good  neighbor,  why  you 

keep 
Your  fire  ablaze  so  long  ? 


"  You  dwell  so  far  from  the  beaten  way 
It  might  burn  for  many  a  night ; 

And  only  belated  men,  astray, 
Would  ever  see  the  light." 

"  Aye,  aye,  't  is  true  as  you  have  said, 
But  few  this  way  have  crossed  ; 

But  why  should  not  fires  be  lit  and  fed 
For  the  sake  of  men  who  are  lost  ? 

"There   are   women   enough   to   smile 

when  they  come. 
Enough  to  watch  and  pray 
For   those  who   never  were   lost   from 

home, 
And  never  were  out  of  the  way. 

"And  hard  it  were  if  there  were  not 

some 

To  love  and  welcome  back 
The   poor  misguided   souls   who   have 

gone 
Aside  from  the  beaten  track. 

"  And  if  a  clear  and  steady  light 
In  my  home  had  always  shone, 

My  own  good  boy  had  sat  to-night 
By  the  hearth,  where  I  sit  alone. 

"  But  alas  !  there  was  no  faintest  spark 
The    night    when    he    should    have 

come  ; 
And  what  had  he,  when  the  pane  was 

dark, 
To  guide  his  footsteps  home  ? 

"  But  since,  each  night  that  comes  and 

goes, 

My  beacon  fires  I  burn  ; 
For  no  one   knows   but   he  lives,  nor 

knows 
The  time  when  he  may  return  !  " 

"And  a  lonesome  life  you  must  have 

had, 

Good  neighbor,  but  tell  me,  pray, 
How  old  when  he  went  was  y*our  little 

lad? 
And  how  long  has  he  been  away  ?" 

"'T  is  thirty  years,  by  my  reckoning, 
Since  he  sat  here  last  with  me  ; 

And  he  was  but  twenty  in  the  spring,  — 
He  was  only  a  boy,  you  see  ! 

"  And   though   never   yet   has   my  fire 

been  low, 
Nor  my  lamp  in  the  window  dim, 


BALLADS  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS. 


231 


It  seems  not  long  to  be  waiting  so, 
Nor  much  to  do  for  him  ! 


"  And  if  mine  eyes  may  see  the  lad 

not  be 


But  in  death,  't  is  enough  of  joy  ; 
What  mother  on  earth  would 


glad 
To  wait  for  such  a  boy  ! 

0  You  think  't  is  long  to  watch  at  home, 
Talking  with  fear  and  doubt ! 

But  long  is  the  time  that  a  son  may 

roam 
Ere  he  tire  his  mother  out ! 

"  And  if  you  had  seen  my  good  boy  go, 

As  I  saw  him  go  from  home, 
With  a  promise  to  come  at  'night,  you 

would  know 

'That,    some    good    night,    he   would 
come." 

*  But  suppose  he  perished  where  never 

pass 

E'en  the  feet  of  the  hunter  bold, 
His  bones  might  bleach  in  the  prairie 

grass 
Unseen  till  the  world  is  old  ! " 

"  Aye,  he  might  have  died  :  you  answer 

well 

And  truly,  friend,  he  might ; 
And  this  good  old  earth  on  which  we 

dwell 
Might  come  to  an  end  to-night ! 

"  But  I  know  that  here  in  its  place,  in- 
stead, 

It  will  firm  and  fast  remain ; 
And   I   know   that    my   son,    alive    or 

dead, 
WTill  return  to  me  again  ! 

"  So  your  idle  fancies  have  no  power 

To  move  me  or  appall ; 
He  is  likelier  now  to  come  in  an  hour 

Than  never  to  come  at  all ! 

"And  he  shall  find  me  watching  yet, 

Return  whenever  he  may  ; 
My  house  has  been  in  order  set 

For  his  coming  many  a  day. 

"  You  were  rightly  shamed  if  his  young 

feet  crossed 
That  threshold  stone  to-night, 


For  your  foolish  words,  that  he  might 

be  lost, 
And  his  bones  be  hid  from  sight ! 

"  And  oh,  if  I  heard  his  light  step  fall, 
If  I  saw  him  at  night  or  morn 

Far  off,  I  should  know  my  son  from  all 
The  sons  that  ever  were  born. 

"  And,  hark  !  there  is  something  strange 

about, 

For.  my  dull  old  blood  is  stirred  : 
That  was  n't  the  feet  of  the  storm  with- 
out, 
Nor  the  voice  of  the  storm  I  heard  ! 

"  It  was  but  the  wind  !   nay,  friend,  be 

still, 
Do  you  think  that  the  night  wind's 

breath 
Through   my  very  soul   could   send   a 

thrill 
Like  the  blast  of  the  angel,  Death  ? 

"  'T  is  my  boy  !  he  is  coming  home,  he 

is  near 

Or  I  could  not  hear  him  pass  ; 
For  his  step  is  as  light  as  the  step  of  the 

deer 
On  the  velvet  prairie  grass. 

"  How  the  tempest  roars  !  how  my  cabin 

rocks ! 

Yet  I  hear  him  through  the  din  ; 
Lo  !   he  stands  without  the  door  —  he 

knocks  — 
I  must  rise  and  let  him  in  ! " 

She  rose,  she  stood  erect,  serene ; 

She  swiftly  crossed  the  floor  ; 
And  the  hand  of  the  wind,  or  a  hand 
unseen, 

Threw  open  wide  the  door. 

Through   the   portal   rushed   the   cruel 

^  blast, 

With  a  wail  on  its  awful  swell ; 
As  she  cried,  "My  boy,  you  have  come 

at  last !  " 
And  prone  o'er  the  threshold  fell. 

And  the  stranger  heard  no  other  sound, 

And  saw  no  form  appear  ; 
But    whoever    came    at    the    midnight 
found 

Her  lamp  was  burning  clear  ! 


POEMS 


OF 


THOUGHT   AND    FEELING. 


A  WEARY  HEART. 

YE  winds,  that  talk  among  the  pines, 
In  pity  whisper  soft  and  low  ; 

And  from  my  trailing  garden  vines, 
Bear  the  faint  odors  as  ye  go ; 

Take  fragrance  from  the  orchard  trees, 
From  the  meek  violet  in  the  dell ; 

Gather  the  honey  that  the  bees 
Had  left  you  in  the  lily's  bell ; 

Pass  tenderly  as  lovers  pass, 

Stoop    to    the    clover-blooms    your 

wings, 
Find  out  the  daisies  in  the  grass. 

The  sweets  of  all  insensate  things ; 

With  muffled  feet,  o'er  beds  of   flow- 
ers, 

Go  through  the  valley  to  the  height, 
Where   frowning   walls  and  lofty   tow- 
ers 
Shut  in  a  weary  heart  to-night ; 

Go  comfort  her,  who  fain  would  give 
Her  wealth  below,  her  hopes  above, 

For  the  wild  freedom  that  ye  have 
To  kiss  the  humblest  flower  ye  love  ! 


COMING   HOME. 

O  BROTHERS  and  sisters,  growing  old, 

Do  you  all  remember  yet 
That  home,  in  the  shade  of  the  rustling 
trees, 

Where  once  our  household  met  ? 

Do  you  know  how  we  used  to  come 

from  school, 
Through  the  summer's  pleasant  heat ; 


With  the  yellow  fennel's  golden  dust 
On  our  tired  little  feet  ? 

And  how  sometimes  in  an  idle  mood 

We  loitered  by  the  way ; 
And   stopped   in  the  woods  to  gather 
flowers 

And  in  the  fields  to  play ; 

Till  warned  by  the  deepening  shadows' 

fall, 

That  told  of  the  coming  night, 
We  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  last,  long 

hill, 
And  saw  our  home  in  sight ! 

And,  brothers  and  sisters,  older  now 
Than  she  whose  life  is  o'er, 

Do  you  think  of  the  mother's  loving 

face, 
That  looked  from  the  open  door  ? 

Alas,  for  the  changing  things  of  time; 

That  home  in  the  dust  is  low  ; 
And  that  loving  smile  was  hid  from  us, 

In  the  darkness,  long  ago  ! 

And  we  have  come  to  life's  last  hill, 

From  which  our  weary  eyes 
Can  almost    look  on  the    home   that 
shines 

Eternal  in  the  skies. 

So,  brothers  and  sisters,  as  we  go, 

Still  let  us  move  as  one, 
Always  together  keeping  step, 

Till  the  march  of  life  is  done. 

For  that   mother,   who   waited   for   us 
here, 

Wearing  a  smile  so  sweet, 
Now  waits  on  the  hills  of  paradise 

For  her  children's  coming  feet ! 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND   FEELING.  233 

If  I  could  have  known  in  the  years  now 
woman   comes   to 


HIDDEN  SORROW. 


HE  has  gone  at  last;  yet  I  could  not 
see 

When  he  passed  to  his  final  rest ; 
For  he  dropped  asleep  as  quietly 

As  the  moon  drops  out  of  the  west. 

And  I   only  saw,  though   I   kept  my 

place, 

That  his  mortal  life  was  o'er, 
By  the  look  of  peace  across  his  face, 
'That  never  was  there  before. 

Sorrow  he  surely  had  in  the  past, 
Yet  he  uttered  never  a  breath  ; 

His  lips  were  sealed  in  life  as  fast 
As  you  see  them  sealed  in  death. 

Why  he  went  from  the  world  I  do  not 
know, 

Hiding  a  grief  so  deep  ; 
But  I  think,  if  he  ever  had  told  his  woe, 

He  had  found  a  better  sleep. 

For  our  trouble  must  some  time  see  the 
light, 

And  our  anguish  will  have  way  ; 
And  the  infant,  crying  out  in  the  night, 

Reveals  what  it  hid  by  day. 

And  just  like  a  needful,  sweet  relief 
To  that  bursting  heart  it  seems, 

When  the  little  child's  unspoken  grief 
Runs  into  its  pretty  dreams. 

And   I    think,  -though    his   face   looks 
hushed  and  mild, 

And  his  slumber  seems  so  deep, 
He  will  sob  in  his  grave,  as  a  little  child 

Keeps  sobbing  on  in  its  sleep. 


A  WOMAN'S  CONCLUSIONS. 

I  SAID,  if  I  might  go  back  again 

To  the  very  hour   and  place  of  my 
birth  ; 

Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  chose, 
And  live  it  in  any  part  of  the  earth ; 

But  perfect  sunshine  into  my  sky, 

Banish   the   shadow   of    sorrow   and 
doubt ; 

Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied, 
And  all  my  suffering  stricken  out ; 


gone, 
The   best  that  a 

know  ; 
Could  have  had  whatever  will  make  her 

blest, 
Or  whatever  she  thinks  will  make  her 

so  ; 

Have  found  the  highest  and  purest  bliss 
That  the  bridal-wreath  and   ring  in- 
close ; 

And  gained  the  one  out  of  all  the  world, 
That  my  heart  as  well  as  my  reason 
chose ; 

And  if  this  had  been,  and  I  stood  to- 
night 
By  my  children,  lying  asleep  in  their 

beds 
And  could  count  in  my  prayers,  for  a 

rosary, 

The    shining    row    of    their    golden 
heads ; 

Yea  !  I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 
Could  be  wrought  for  me,  at  my  bid- 
ding, still 

I  vvottld  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it  is, 
And  to  let  my  future  come  as  it  will ! 


have 


I   would   not   make   the   path  I 

trod 
More  pleasant  or  even,  more  straight 

or  wide  ; 
Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of  a 

hair, 
This  way  or  that  way,  to  either  side. 

My  past  is  mine,  and  I  take  it  all ; 

Its  weakness  —  its  folly,  if  you  please  ; 
Nay,  even  my  sins,  if  you  come  to  that, 

May  have  been  my  helps,  not  hin- 
drances ! 

If  I  saved  my  body  from  the  flames 
Because  that  once  I  had  burned  my 

hand  ; 

Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By   doing   a   less  —  you    will   under- 
stand ; 

It  was  better  I  suffered  a  little  pain, 

Better  I  sinned  for  a  little  time, 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  back  from 

death, 

And  the  sting  of  sin  withheld  from 
crime. 


234 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Who  knows  his  strength,  by  trial,  will 

know 
What  strength  must  be  set  against  a 

sin ; 
And  how  temptation  is  overcome 

He  has  learned,  who  has  felt  its  power 
within  ! 

And  who  knows  how  a  life  at  the  last 

may  show  ? 
Why,  look  at  the  moon  from  where 

we  stand  ! 

Opaque,  uneven, you  say;  yet  it  shines, 
A    luminous    sphere,   complete    and 
grand ! 

So  let  my  past  stand,  just  as  it  stands, 
And   let   me   now,  as   I   may,   grow 
old  ; 

I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best  —  or  it  had  not  been,  I  hold. 


ANSWERED. 

I  THOUGHT  to  find  some  healing  clime 
For  her  I  loved  ;  she  found  that  shore, 

That  city,  whose  inhabitants 
Are  sick  and  sorrowful  no  more. 

I  asked  for  human  love  for  her  ; 

The  Loving  knew  how  beL,t  to  still 
The  infinite  yearning  of  a  heart, 

Which  but  infinity  could  fill. 

Such  sweet  communion  had  been  ours 
I  prayed  that  it  might  never  end  ; 

My   prayer   is    more    than    answered; 

now 
I  have  an  angel  for  my  friend. 

I  wished  for  perfect  peace,  to  soothe 
The  troubled  anguish  of  her  breast ; 

And,  numbered  with  the  loved  and  called, 
She  entered  on  untroubled  rest. 

Life  was  so  fair  a  thing  to  her, 
I  wept  and  pleaded  for  its  stay. 

My  wish  was  granted  me,  for  lo  ! 
She  hath  eternal  life  to-day. 


DISENCHANTED. 

THE  time  has  come,  as  I  knew  it  must, 
She  said,  when  we  should  part, 


But  I  ceased  to  love  when  I  ceased  to 

trust, 
And  you  cannot  break  my  heart 

Nay,  I  know  not  even  if  I  am  sad, 
And  it  must  be  for  the  best, 

Since  you  only  take  what  I  thought  I 

had, 
And  leave  to  me  the  rest. 

Not  all  the  stars  of  my  hope  are  set, 

Though  one  is  in  eclipse  ; 
And  I  know  there  is  truth  in  the  wide 
world  yet 

If  it  be  not  on  your  lips. 

And  though  I  have  loved  you,  who  can 
tell 

If  you  ever  had  been  so  dear, 
But  that  my  heart  was  prodigal 

Of  its  wealth,  and  you  were  near. 

I  brought  each  rich  and  beautiful  thing 
From  my  love's  great  treasury ; 

And  I  thought  in  myself  to  make  a  king 
With  the  robes  of  royalty. 

But  you  lightly  laid  my  honors  down, 
And  you  taught  me  thus  to  know, 

Not  every  head  can  wear  the  crown 
That  the  hands  of  love  bestow. 

So,  take  whatever  you  can  from  me, 

And  leave  me  as  you  will  ; 
The  dear  romance  and  the  poesy 

Were  mine,  and  I  have  them  still. 

I  have  them  still  ;  and  even  now, 
When  my  fancy  has  her  way, 

She  can  make  a  king  of  such  as  thou, 
Or  a  god  of  common  clay. 


ALAS  ! 

SINCE,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day. 

Only  our  hands  could  meet, 
What  matter  that  half  the  weary  world 

Lies  out  between  our  feet ; 

That  I  am  here  by  the  lone?ome  sea, 
You  by  the  pleasant  Rhine  ?  — 

Our  hearts  were  just  as  far  apart 
If  I  held  your  hand  in  mine  ! 

Therefore,with  never  a  backward  glance, 
1  leave  the  past  behind  ; 


POEMS  OF   THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


235 


And  standing  here  by  the  sea  alone, 
I  give  it  to  the  wind. 

I  give  it  all  to  the  cruel  wind, 
And  I  have  no  word  to  say  ; 

Yet,  alas  !  to  be  as  we  have  been, 
And  to  be  as  we  are  to-day  ! 


MOTHER   AND   SON. 

BRIGHTLY  for  him  the  future  smiled, 

The  world  was  all  untried  ; 
He  had  been  a  boy,  almost  a  child, 

In  your  household  till  he  died. 

And  you   saw   him,  young   and   strong 
and  fair, 

But  yesterday  depart ; 
And  you  now  know  he  is  lying  there 

Shot  to  death  through  the  heart ! 

Alas,  for  the  step  so  proud  and  true 
That  struck  on  the  war-path's  track  ; 

Alas,  to  go,  as  he  went  from  you, 

And  to  come,  as   they  brought   him 
back! 

One  shining  curl  from  that  bright  young 

head, 

Held  sacred  in  your  home, 
Is   all   you   will   have   to   keep   in   his 

stead 
In  the  years  that  are  to  come. 

You  may  claim  of   his  beauty  and  his 
youth 

Only  this  little  part  — 
It  is  not  much  with  which  to  stanch 

The  wound  in  a  mother's  heart ! 

It  is  not  much  with  which  to  dry 

The  bitter  tears  that  flow  ; 
Not  much  in  your  empty  hands  to  lie 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go. 

Yet  he  has  not  lived  and  died  in  vain, 

For  proudly  you  may  say 
He  has  left  a  name,  with  never  a  stain 

For  your  tears  to  wash  away. 

And  evermore  shall  your  life  be  blest, 
Though  your  treasures  now  are  few, 

Since  you  gave  for  your  country's  good 

the  best 
God  ever  gave  to  you  ! 


THEODORA. 

BY  that  name  you  will  not  know  her, 
But  if  words  of  mine  can  show  her 
In  such  way  that  you  may  see 
How  she  doth  appear  to  me  ; 
If,  attending  you  shall  find 
The  fair  picture  in  my  mind, 
You  will  think  this  title  meetest, 
Gift  of  God,  the  best  and  sweetest. 

All  her  free,  impulsive  acting, 
Is  so  charming,  so  distracting, 
Lovers  think  her  made,  I  know, 
Only  for  a  play-fellow. 
Coral  lips,  concealing  pearls, 
Hath  she,  'twixt  dark  rows  of  curls  ; 
And  her  words,  dropt  soft  and  slowly, 
Seem  half  ravishing,  half  holy. 

She  is  for  a  saint  too  human, 
Yet  too  saintly  for  a  woman  ; 
Something  childish  in  her  face 
Blended  with  maturer  grace, 
Shows  a  nature  pure  and  good, 
Perfected  by  motherhood  ;  — 
Eyes  Madonna-like,  love-laden, 
Holier  than  befit  a  maiden. 

Simple  in  her  faith  unshrinking, 
Wise  as  sages  in  her  thinking ; 
Showing  in  her  artless  speech 
All  she  of  herself  can  teach  ; 
Hiding  love  and  thought  profound, 
In  such  depths  as  none  may  sound ; 
One,  though  known  and  comprehended, 
Yet  with  wondrous  mystery  blended. 

Sitting  meekly  and  serenely, 
Sitting  in  a  state  most  queenly  ; 
Knowing,     though     dethroned,     dis- 
crowned, 

That  her  kingdom  shall  be  found  ; 
That  her  Father's  child  must  be 
Heir  of  immortality  ; 
This  is  still  her  highest  merit, 
That  she  ruleth  her  own  spirit. 

Thou  to  whom  is  given  this  treasure, 
Guard  it,  love  it  without  measure ; 
If  forgotten  it  should  lie 
In  a  weak  hand  carelessly, 
Thou  mayst  wake  to  miss  and  weep, 
That  which  thou  didst  fail  to  keep ; 
Crying,  when  the  gift  is  taken, 
"  I  am  desolate,  forsaken  !  " 


236 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


UP   AND    DOWN. 

THE  sun  of  a  sweet  summer  morning 

Smiled  joyously  down  from  the  sky, 
As   we   climbed   up   the   mountain   to- 
gether, — 

My  charming  companion  and  I  ; 
The  wild  birds  that  live  in  the  bushes 
Sang  love,  without  fear  or  disguise, 
And   the   flowers,    with   soft,    blushing 

faces, 

Looked  love  from    their  wide-open 
eyes. 

In  and  out,  through   the  sunshine  and 

shadow, 

We  went  where  the  odors  are  sweet ; 
And  the  pathway  that  led  from  the  val- 
ley 

Was  pleasant  and  soft  to  our  feet  : 
And  while  we  were  hopefully  talking  — 
For    our   hearts    and    our   thoughts 

seemed  in  tune  — 

Unaware,  we  had  climbed  to  the  sum- 
mit, 
And  the  sun  of  the  morning,  to  noon. 

For   my   genial  and   pleasant  compan- 
ion 

Was  so  kind  and  so  helpful  the  while, 
That  I  felt  how  the  path  of  a  life-time 
Might  be  brightened  and  cheered  by 

his  smile  ; 
And  how  blest,  with  his   care  and  his 

guidance, 

Some  true,  loving  woman  might  be, — 
Of  course  never  hoping  or  wishing 
Such  fortune  would  happen  to  me  ! 

We   spoke   of    life,   death,   truth,   and 
friendship,  — 

Things  hoped  for,  below  and  above, 
And  then  sitting  down  at  the  summit, 

We  talked  about  loving,  and  love  ; 
And  he  told  me  the  years  of   his  life- 
time 

Till  now  had  been  barren  and  drear, 
In  tones  that  were  touching  and  tender 

As  exquisite  music  to  hear. 

And  I  saw  in  the  eyes  looking  on  me, 
A  meaning  that  could  not  be  hid, 

Till  I  blushed  —  oh,  it   makes   me   so 

angry, 
Even  now,  to  remember  I  did  !  — 

As,  taking  my  hand,  he  drew  nearer, 
And  said,  in  his  tenderest  tone, 


'T  was  like  the  dear  hand  that  so  often 
Had  lovingly  lain  in  his  own. 

And  that,  't  was  not  flattery  only, 

But  honest  and  merited  praise, 
To  say  I  resembled  his  sweetheart 

Sometimes  in  my  words  and  my  ways. 
That  I  had  the  same  womanly  feelings, 

My  thoughts  were  as  noble  and  high  ; 
But  that  she  was  a  trifle,  say,  fairer, 

And  a  year  or  two  younger  than  I. 

Then  he  told  me  my  welfare  was  dearer 

To  him  than  I  might  understand, 
And  he  wished  he  knew  any  one  worthy 

To  claim  such  a  prize  as  my  hand  ; 
And  his  darling,  I  surely  must  love  her, 

Because  she  was  charming  and  good, 
And    because   she   had   made   him   so 
happy  ; 

And  I  said  I  was  sure  that  I  should  — 

That  nothing  could  make  me  so  happy 

As  seeing  him  happy  ;  but  then 
I  was  wretchedly  tired  and  stupid, 

And  wished  myself  back  in  the  glen. 
That  the  sun,  so  delightful  at  morning, 

Burned  now  with  a  merciless  flame; 
And  I  dreaded  again  to  go  over 

The  long,  weary  way  that  we  came. 

So  we  started  to  go  down  the  mount- 
ain ; 
But   the   wild   birds,   the    poor   silly 

things, 

Had  finished  their  season  of  courting, 
And    put    their    heads    under    their 

wings  ; 
And  the  flowers  that  opened  at  morning, 

All  blushing  with  joy  and  surprise, 
Had    turned   from    the    sun's   burning 

glances, 
And  sleepily  shut  up  their  eyes. 

Everything  I  had  thought  so  delightful 

Was  gone,  leaving  scarcely  a  trace  ; 
And  even  my  charming  companion 

Grew  stupid  and  quite  commonplace. 
He    was    not    the    same    man    that  I 
thought  him  — 

I  can't  divine  why  ;  but  at  once, 
The  fellow  who  had  been  so  charming 

Was  changed  from  a  dear  to  a  dunce. 

But  if  any  young  man  needs  advising, 
Let  me  whisper  a  word  in  his  ear  :  — • 

Don't  talk  of  the  lady  that 's  absent 
Too  much  to  the  lady  that 's  near. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


237 


My  kindness  is  disinterested  ; 

So  in  speaking  to  me  never  mind  ; 
But  the  course  I  advise  you  to  follow 

Is  safe,  as  a  rule,  you  will  find. 

You  may  talk  about  love  in  the  abstract, 

Say  the  ladies  are  charming  and  dear ; 
But  you  need  not  select  an  example, 

Nor  say  she  is  there,  or  is  here. 
When   it   comes   to   that   last  applica- 
tion, 

Just  leave  it  entirely  out, 
And  give  to  the  lady  that 's  present 

The  benefit  still  of  the  doubt ! 


BEYOND. 

WHEN  you  would  have  sweet  flowers  to 

smell  and  hold, 
You  do  not  seek  them  underneath  the 

cold 
Close-knitted  sod,  that  hides  away  the 

mould  ; . 

Where  in  the  spring-time  past 
The  precious  seed  was  cast. 

Not  down,  but  up,  you  turn  your  eager 

eyes  ; 
You  find  in   summer   the  fair   flowery 

prize 
On  the  green  stalk,  that  reaches  towards 

the  skies, 

And,  bending  down  its  top, 
Gather  the  fragrant  crop. 

If  you  would  find  the  goal  of  some  pare 

rill, 

That,  following  her  unrestrained  will, 
Runs  laughing  down  the  bright  slope  of 

the  hill, 

Or,  with  a  serious  mien, 
Walks  through  the  valley  green, 

You  do  not  seek  the  spot  where  she 

was  born, 
The  cavernous  mountain  chamber,  dim, 

forlorn, 
That  never  saw  the  fair  face  of  the 

morn, 

Where  she,  with  wailing  sound, 
First  started  from  the  ground ; 

But  rather  will  you  track  her  windings 

free, 

To  where  at  last  she  rushes  eagerly 
Into  the  white  arms  of  her  love,  the  sea, 


And  hides  in  his  embrace 
The  rapture  on  her  face  ! 

If,  from  the  branches  of  a  neighboring 

tree, 

A  bird  some  morn  were   missing  sud- 
denly, 

That  all  the  summer  sang  for  ecstasy, 
And  made  your  season  seem 
Like  a  melodious  dream, 

You  would  not  search  about  the  leafless 

dell, 
In  places  where  the  nestling  used   to 

dwell, 
To  find  the  white  walls  of  her  broken 

shell, 

Thinking  your  child  of  air, 
Your  winged  joy,  was  there  ! 

But  rather,  hurrying  from  the  autumn 

gale, 

Your  feet  would  follow  summer's  flow- 
ery trail 
To  find  her  spicy  grove,  and  odorous 

vale; 

Knowing  that  birds  and  song 
To  pleasant  climes  belong. 

Then  wherefore,  when  you  see  a  soul 

set  free 

From  this  poor  seed  of  its  mortality, 
And  know  you  sow  not  that  which  is 

to  be, 

Watch  you  about  the  tomb, 
For  the  immortal  bloom  ? 

Search  for  your  flowers  in  the  celestial 

grove, 

Look  for  your  precious  stream  of  hu- 
man love 

In  the  unfathomable  sea  above  ; 
Follow  your  missing  bird 
Where  songs  are  always  heard  ! 


FAVORED. 

UPON  her  cheek  such  color  glows, 
And  in  her  eye  such  light  appears, 

As  comes,  and  only  comes  to  those, 
Whose  hearts  are   all  untouched  by 
years. 

Yet  half  her  wealth  she  doth  not  see, 
Nor  half  the  kindness  Heaven  hath 
shown, 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY, 


She  never  felt  the  poverty 

Of  souls  less  favored  than  her  own. 

When  all  is  hers  that  life  can  give, 
How  can  she  tell  how  drear  it  seems 

To  those,  uncomforted,  who  live 

In  dreaming  of  their  vanished  dreams. 

Supplied  beyond  her  greatest  need 
With  lavish  hoard  of  love  and  trust, 

How  shall  she  pity  such  as  feed 

On  hearts  that  years  have  turned  to 
dust  ? 

When  sighs  are  smothered  down,  and 
lost 

In  tenderest  kisses  ere  they  start, 
What  knows  she  of  the  bitter  cost 

Of  hiding  sorrow  in  the  heart  ? 

While    fondest  care    each   wish    sup- 
plies, 
And  heart-strings   for   her  frowning 

break, 

What  can  she  know  of  one  who  dies 
For    love    she    scarcely    deigns    to 
take  ? 

What  should,  she    know?    No    weak 
complaint, 

No  cry  of  pain  should  come  to  her, 
If  mine  were  all  the  woes  I  paint, 

And  she  could  be  my  comforter  ! 


WOMEN. 

'T  is  a  sad  truth,  yet  't  is  a  truth 
That  does  not  need  the  proving  : 

They  give  their  hears  away,  unasked, 
And  are  not  loved  for  loving. 

Striving  to  win  a  little  back, 
For  all  they  feel  they  hide  it ; 

And  lips  that  tremble  with  their  love, 
In  trembling  have  denied  it. 

Sometimes  they  deem  the  kiss  and  smile 
Is  life  and  love's  beginning  ; 

While  he  who  wins  the  heart  away, 
Is  satisfied  with  winning. 

Sometimes   they   think  they   have   not 
found 

The  right  one  for  their  mating  ; 
And  go  on  till  the  hair  is  white, 

And  eyes  are  blind  with  waiting. 


And  if  the  mortal  tarry  still, 
They  fill  their  lamps,  undying  ; 

And  till  the  midnight  wait  to  hear 
The    "  Heavenly  Bridegroom  "    cry 
ing. 

For  while  she  lives,  the  best  of  them 
Is  less  a  saint  than  woman  ; 

And  when  her  lips  ask  love  divine, 
Her  heart  asks  love  that 's  human  ! 


THE  ONLY  ORNAMENT. 

EVEN  as  a  child  too  well  she  knew 
Her  lack  of  loveliness  and  grace  ; 

So,  like  an  unprized  weed  she  grew, 
Grudging  the  meanest  flower  its  face. 

Often  with  tears  her  sad  eyes  filled, 
Watching  the  plainest  birds  that  went 

About  her  home  to  pair,  and  build 
Their  humble  nests  in  sweet  content. 

No  melody  was  in  her  words  ; 

You  thought  her,  as  she  passed  along, 
As  brown  and  homely  as  the  birds 

She  envied,  but  without  their  song. 

She  saw,  and  sighed  to  see  how  glad 
Earth   makes   her  fair   and  favored 
child; 

While  all  the  beauty  that  she  had 
Was  in  her  smile,  nor  oft  she  smiled. 

So  seasons  passed  her  and  were  gone, 
She  musing  by  herself  apart ; 

Till  the  vague  longing  that  is  known 
To  woman  came  into  her  heart. 

That  feeling  born  when  fancy  teems 
With  all  that  makes  this  life  a  good, 

Came  to  her,  with  its  wondrous  dreams, 
That  bless  and  trouble  maidenhood. 

She  would  have  deemed  it  joy  to  sit 
In  any  home,  or  great  or  small, 

Could  she  have  hoped  to  brighten  it 
For  one  who  thought  of  her  at  all. 

At  night,  or  in  some  secret  place, 
She  used  to  think,  with  tender  pain, 

How  infants  love  the  mother's  face, 
And  know  not  if  't  is  fair  or  plain. 

She  longed  to  feast  her  hungry  eyes 
On  anything  her  own  could  please ; 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


239 


To  sing  soft,  loving  lullabies 
To  children  lying  on  her  knees. 

And  yet  beyond  the  world  she  went, 
Unmissed,  as  if  she  had  not  been, 

Taking  her  only  ornament, 
A  meek  and  quiet  soul  within. 

None  ever  knew  her  heart  was  pained, 
'     Or  that  she  grieved  to  live  unsought ; 
They   deemed   her   cold   and    self-con- 
tained, 
Contented  in  her  realm  of  thought. 

Her  patient  life,  when  it  was  o'er, 

Was  one  that  all  the  world  approved  ; 

Some  marveled  at,  some  pitied  her, 
But  neither  man  nor  woman  loved. 

Even  little  children  felt  the  same ; 

Were  shy  of  her,  from  awe  or  fear ;  — 
I  wonder  if  she  knew  they  came, 

And  scattered  roses  on  her  bier  ! 


EQUALITY. 

MOST  favored  lady  in  the  land, 

I  well  can  bear  your  scorn  or  pride ; 

For  in  all  truest  wealth,  to-day, 
I  stand  an  equal  by  your  side  ! 

No  better  parentage  have  you,  — 
One  is  our  Father,  one  our  Friend ; 

The  same  inheritance  awaits 

Our  claiming,  at  the  journey's  end. 

No   broader    flight   your   thought   can 
take,  — 

Faith  on  no  firmer  basis  rest ; 
Nor  can  the  dreams  of  fancy  wake 

A  sweeter  tumult  in  your  breast. 

Life  may  to  you  bring  every  good, 
Which    from   a    Father's    hand    can 
fall; 

But  if  true  lips  have  said  to  me, 
"  I  love  you,"  I  have  known  it  all ! 


EBB-TIDE. 

WITH  her  white  face  full  of  agony, 
Under  her  dripping  locks, 

I  hear  the  wretched,  restless  sea, 
Complaining  to  the  rocks. 


Helplessly  in  her  great  despair, 

She  shudders  on  the  sand, 
The  bright  weeds  dropping   from   her 
hair, 

And  the  pale  shells  from  her  hand. 

'T  is  pitiful  thus  to  see  her  lie, 
With  her  beating,  heaving  breast, 

Here,  where  she  fell,  when  cast  aside, 
Sobbing  herself  to  rest. 

Alas,  alas  !  for  the  foolish  sea, 
Why  was  there  none  to  say  : 

The  wave  that  strikes  on  the  heartless 

stone 
Must  break  and  fall  away  ? 

Why  could  she  not  have  known  that 

this 

Would  be  her  fate  at  length  ;  — 
For    the    hand,    unheld,   must   slip   at 

last, 

Though    it    cling    with    love's    own 
strength  ? 


HAPPY   WOMEN. 

IMPATIENT  women,  as  you  wait 
In  cheerful  homes  to-night,  to  hear 

The  sound  of  steps  that,  soon  or  late, 
Shall  come  as  music  to  your  car  ; 

Forget  yourselves  a  little  while, 
And  think  in  pity  of  the  pain 

Of  women  who  will  never  smile 
To  hear  a  coming  step  again. 

With  babes  that  in  their  cradle  sleep, 
Or  cling  to  you  in  perfect  trust ; 

Think  of  the  mothers  left  to  weep, 
Their  babies  lying  in  the  dust. 

And    when    the    step     you    wait    for 
comes, 

And  all  your  world  is  full  of  light, 
O  women,  safe  in  happy  homes. 

Pray  for  all  lonesome  souls  to-night  1 


LOSS  AND   GAIN. 

LIFE  grows  better  every  day, 
If  we  live  in  deed  and  truth ; 

So  I  am  not  used  to  grieve 
For  the  vanished  joys  of  youth. 


240 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHOLBE   CARY. 


For  though  early  hopes  may  die, 
Early  dreams  be  rudely  crossed  ; 

Of  the  past  we  still  can  keep 

Treasures  more  than  we  have  lost. 

For  if  we  but  try  to  gain 

Life's  best  good,  and  hold  it  fast, 
We  grow  very  rich  in  love 

Ere  our  mortal  days  are  past. 

Rich  in  golden  stores  of  thought, 
Hopes  that  give  us  wealth  untold  ; 

Rich  in  all  sweet  memories, 
That  grow  dearer,  growing  old. 

For  when  we  have  lived  and  loved, 

Tasted  suffering  and  bliss, 
All  the  common  things  of  life 

Have  been  sanctified  by  this. 

What  my  eyes  behold  to-day 
Of  this  good  world  is  not  all, 

Earth  and  sky  are  crowded  full 
Of  the  beauties  they  recall. 

When  I  watch  the  sunset  now, 
As  its  glories  change  and  glow, 

I  can  see  the  light  of  suns 
That  were  faded  long  ago. 

When  I  look  up  to  the  stars, 

I  find  burning  overhead 
All  the  stars  that  ever  shone 

In  the  nights  that  now  are  dead. 

And  a  loving,  tender  word, 

Dropping  from  the  lips  of  truth, 

Brings  each  dear  remembered  tone 
Echoing  backward  from  my  youth. 

When  I  meet  a  human  face, 
Lit  for  me  with  light  divine, 

I  recall  all  loving  eyes 

That  have  ever  answered  mine. 

Therefore,  they  who  were  my  friends 
Never  can  be  changed  or  old ; 

For  the  beauty  of  their  youth 

Fond  remembrance  well  can  hold. 

And  even  they  whose  feet  here  crossed 
O'er  the  noiseless,  calm  abyss, 

To  the  better  shore  which  seemed 
Once  so  far  away  from  this ; 

Are  to  me  as  dwelling  now 
Just  across  a  pleasant  stream, 


Over  which  they  come  and  go, 
As  we  journey  in  a  dream. 


A    PRAYER. 

I  ASK  not  wealth,  but  power  to  take 
And  use  the  things  I  have  aright, 

Not  years,  but  wisdom  that  shall  make 
My  life  a  profit  and  delight. 

I  ask  not  that  for  me,  the  plan 
Of  good  and  ill  be  set  aside  ; 

But  that  the  common  lot  of  man 
Be  nobly  borne,  and  glorified. 

I  know  I  may  not  always  keep 

My  steps  in  places  green  and  sweet, 

Nor  find  the  pathway  of  the  deep 
A  path  of  safety  for  my  feet ; 


But 


pray,    that 
breath 


when    the    tempest's 


Shall  fiercely  sweep  my  way  about, 
I  make  not  shipwreck  of  my  faith 
In  the  unbottomed  sea  of  doubt ; 

And  that,  though  it  be  mine  to  know 
How  hard  the  stoniest  pillow  seems, 

Good  angels  still  may  come  and  go, 
About  the  places  of  my  dreams. 

I  do  not  ask  for  love  below, 

That  friends  shall  never  be  estranged; 
But  for  the  power  of  loving,  so 

My  heart  may  keep  its  youth  un- 
changed. 

Youth,  joy,  wealth — Fate  I  give  thee 
these  ; 

Leave  faith  and  hope  till  life  is  past ; 
And  leave  my  heart's  best  impulses 

Fresh  and  unfailing  to  the  last ! 


MEMORIAL. 

TOILING  early,  and  toiling  late, 
Though  her  name  was  never  heard, 

To   the   least   of   her   Saviour's    little 

ones, 
She  meekly  ministered,  — 

Publishing  good  news  to  the  poor; 
She  came  to  their  homes  unsought, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND   FEELING. 


241 


And  her  feet  on  the  hills  were  beautiful, 
For  the  blessings  which  they  brought. 

Such  a  perfect  life  as  hers,  again, 
In  the  world  we  may  not  see  ; 

For  her  heart  was  full  of  love,  and  her 

hands 
Were  full  of  charity. 

Oh  woe  for  us  !   cried  the  weak  and 
poor, 

And  the  weary  ones  made  moan  ; 
And  the  mourners  went  about  the  streets, 

When  she  went  to  her  home  alone. 

And,  seeing  her  go  from  the  field  of  life, 
From  toiling,  early  and  late, 

We  said,  What  good  has  she  gained,  to 

show 
For  a  sacrifice  so  great  ? 

We  might  have  learned  from  the  hus- 
bandman 

To  wait  more  patiently, 
Since  his  seed  of  wheat  lies  under  the 

snow, 
Not  quickened,  except  it  die. 

For  when  we  raised  our  eyes  again 
From  their  sorrow's  wintry  night, 

We  saw  how  the  deeds  of  good  she  hid 
Were  pushing  up  to  the  light. 

And  still  the  precious  seed  she  showed, 

In  patient,  sorrowing  trust, 
Though  not  for  her  mortal  eyes  to  see, 

Comes  blossoming  out  of  the  dust. 


THE  HARMLESS  LUXURY. 

HER  skies,  of  whom  I  sing,  are  hung 
With  sad   clouds,   dropping  saddest 

tears  ; 
Yet  some  white  days,  like  pearls,   are 

strung 
Upon  the  dark  thread  of  her  years. 

And  as  remembrance  turns  to  slip 
Through  fingers   fond  the   treasures 
rare, 

Ever  her  thankful  heart  and  lip 
Run  over  into  song  and  prayer. 

With  joys  more  exquisite  and  deep 
Than  hers  she  knows  this  good  world 
teems, 


Yet  only  asks  that  she  may  keep 
The  harmless  luxury  of  dreams. 

Thankful  that,  though  her  life  has  lost 
The  best  it  hoped,  the  best  it  willed, 

Her    sweetest    dream    has    not    been 

crossed, 
Or  worse  —  but  only  half  fulfilled. 

And  that  beside  her  still,  to  wile 

Her   thought    from    sad    and   sober 
truth, 

Are  Hope  and  Fancy,  all  the  while 
Feeding  her  heart's  eternal  youth. 

And  who  shall  say  that  they  who  close 
Their    eyes  to    Hope   and    Fancy's 

beams, 
Are  living  truer  lives  than  those, 

The    dreamers,    who    believe    their 
dreams. 


TRIED  AND  TRUE. 

OUR  life  is  like  a  march,  where  some 
Fall  early  from  the  ranks,  and  die  ; 

And  some,  when  times  of  conflict  come, 
Go  over  to  the  enemy. 

And  he  who  halts  upon  the  way  — 
Wearied  in  spirit  and  in  frame  — 

To  call  his  roll  of  friends,  will  find 
How  few  make  answer  to  their  name  ! 

And  those  who  share   our  youth  and 

j°y» 

Not  always  keep  our  love  and  trust, 
When  days  of  awful  anguish  bow 
Our  heads  with  sorrow  to  the  dust. 

My  friend  !  in  such  a  fearful  hour, 
When  heart  and  spirit  sank  dismayed, 

From  thee  the  words  of  comfort  came  — 
From  thee,  the  true  and  tender  aid. 

Therefore,  though  many  another  friend 
With   youth   and   youthful    pleasure 
goes, 

Thou  art  of  such  as  I  would  have 
Walk  with  me  till  life's  solemn  close. 

Yea,  with  me  when  earth's  trials  are 
done,  — 

If  I  be  found,  when  these  shall  cease, 
Worthy  to  stand  with  those  who  wear 

White  raiment  on  the  hills  of  peace. 


242 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


PEACE. 

O  LAND,  of  every  land  the  best  — 
O  Land,  whose  glory  shall  increase ; 

Now  in  your  whitest  raiment  drest 
For  the  great  festival  of  peace  : 

Take  from  your  flag  its  fold  of  gloom, 
And  let  it  float  undiinmed  above, 

Till  over  all  our  vales  shall  bloom 
The  sacred  colors  that  we  love. 

On  mountain  high,  in  valley  low, 
Set  Freedom's  living  fires  to  burn 

Until  the  midnight  sky  shall  show 
A  redder  pathway  than  the  morn. 

Welcome,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pride, 
Your  veterans  from  the  war-path's 
track  ; 

You  gave  your  boys,  untrained,  untried  ; 
You  bring  them  men  and  heroes  back  ! 

And   shed  no    tear,  though  think  you 
must 

With  sorrow  of  the  martyred  band  ; 
Not  even  for  him  whose  hallowed  dust 

Has  made  our  prairies  holy  land. 

Though  by  the  places  where  they  fell, 
The  places  that  are  sacred  ground, 

Death,  like  a  sullen  sentinel, 
Paces  his  everlasting  round. 

Yet  when  they  set  their  country  free 
And  gave  her  traitors  fitting  doom, 

They  left  their  last  great  enemy, 
Baffled,  beside  an  empty  tomb. 

Not  there,  but  risen,  redeemed,  they  go 
Where  all  the  paths  are  sweet  'with 
flowers  ; 

They  fought  to  give  us  peace,  and  lo  ! 
They  gained  a  better  peace  than  ours 


SUNSET. 

AWAY  in  the  dim  and  distant  past 

That  little  valley  lies, 
Where  the   clouds  that   dimmed  life's 
morning  hours 

Were  tinged  with  hope's  sweet  dyes. 

That  peaceful  spot  from  which  I  looked 
To  the  future  —  unaware 


That  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 
Were  meant  for  me  to  bear. 

Alas,  alas  !  I  have  borne  the  heat, 
To  the  burden  learned  to  bow  ; 

For  I  stand  on  the  top  of  the  hill  of 

life, 
And  I  see  the  sunset  now  ! 

I  stand  on  the  top,  but  I  look  not  back 
To  the  way  behind  me  spread  ; 

Not  to  the  path  my  feet  have  trod, 
But  the  path  they  still  must  tread. 

And  straight  and  plain  before  my  gaze 

The  certain  future  lies  ; 
But  my  sun  grows  larger  all  the  while 

As  he  travels  down  the  skies. 

Yea,  the  sun  of  my  hope  grows  large 

and  grand  ; 

For,  with  my  childish  years, 
I  have  left  the  mist  that  dimmed  my 

sight, 
I  have  left  my  doubts  and  fears. 

And  I  have  gained  in  hope  and  trust, 
Till  the  future  looks  so  bright, 

That,  letting  go  of  the  hand  of  Faith, 
I  walk,  at  times,  by  sight. 

For  we  only  feel  that  faith  is  life, 
And  death  is  the  fear  of  death, 

When  we  suffer  up  to  the  solemn  heights 
Of  a  true  and  living  faith. 

When  we  do  not  say,  the  dead  shall 
rise 

At  the  resurrection's  call  ; 
But  when  we  trust  in  the  Lord,  and  know 

That  we  cannot  die  at  all ! 


APOLOGY. 

NAY,  darling,  darling,  do  not  frown, 
Nor  call  my  words  unkind  ; 

For  my  speech  was  but  an  idle  jest, 
As  idle  as  the  wind. 

And  now  that  I  see  your  tender  heart 
By  my  thoughtlessness  is  grieved, 

I  suffer  both  for  the  pain  I  gave, 
And  the  pain  that  you  received. 

For  if  ever  I  have  a  thought  of  you, 
That  cold  or  cruel  seem§, 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


243 


I  have  murdered  my  peace,  and  robbed 

my  sleep 
Of  the  joy  of  its  happy  dreams. 

And  when  I  have  brought  a  cloud  of 
grief 

To  your  sweet  face  unaware, 
Its  shadow  covers  all  my  sky 

With  the  blackness  of  despair. 

And  if  in  your  pillow  I  have  set 
But  one  sharp  thorn,  alone, 

That  cruel,  careless  deed,  transplants 
A  thousand  to  my  own. 

I  grieve  with  your  grief,  I  die  in  your 

frown, 

In  your  joy  alone  I  live  ; 
And  the  blow  that  it  pained  your  heart 

to  feel, 
I  would  break  my  own  to  give  ! 


THE  SHADOW. 

SHE  was  so  good,  we  thought  before 

she  died 

To  see  new  glory  on   her  path  de- 
scend ; 

And  could  not  tell,  till  she  had  gone  in- 
side, 

Why    there    was    darkness    at    her 
journey's  end 

And  then  we  saw  that  she  had  stood,  of 

late, 
So   near  the   entrance   to   that  holy 

place, 

That,  from  the  Eternal  City's  open  gate, 
The  awful  shadow  fell  across  her  face. 


MORNING  AND  AFTERNOON. 

FAIR  girl,  the  light  of  whose  morning 

keeps 

The  flush  of  its  dawning  glow, 
Do  you   ask   why   that  faded   woman 

weeps, 
Whose  sun  is  sinking  low  ? 

You  look  to  the  future,  on,  above, 
She  only  looks  to  the  past ; 

You    are    dreaming    your    first    sweet 

dream  of  love, 
And  she  has  dreamed  her  last. 


You  watch  for  feet  that  are  yet  to  tread 
With  yours,  on  a  pleasant  track  ; 

She   hears   but    the    echoes   dull    and 

dread 
Of  feet  that  come  not  back. 

You  are  passing  up  the  flowery  slope 

She  left  so  long  ago  ; 
Your  rainbows  shine  through  the  drops 
of  hope, 

And  hers  through  the  drops  of  woe. 

Your  night  in  its  visions  glides  away 
And  at  morn  you  live  them  o'er ; 

From  her  dreams  by  night  and  dreams 

by  day 
She  has  waked  to  dream  no  more. 

You  are  reaching  forth  with  spirit  glad 
To  hopes  that  are  still  untried  ; 

She  is  burying  the  hopes  she  had, 
That  have  slipped  from  her  arms  and 
died. 

You  think  of  the  good,  for  you  in  store, 

Which  the  future  yet  will  send  ; 
While  she,  she  knows  it  were  well  for 

her 
she  made  a  peaceful  end  ! 


LIVING  BY  FAITH. 

WHEN  the  way  we  should  tread  runs 

evenly  on, 

And  light  as  of  noonday  is  over  it  all, 
'Tis   strange   how   our   feet   will   turn 

aside 

To  paths  vyhere  we  needs  must  grope 
and  fall ; 

How  we  suffer,  knowing  it  all  the  while, 
Some  phantom  between  ourselves  and 
the  light, 

That  shuts  in  disastrous,  strange  eclipse, 
The  very  powers  of  sense  and  sight. 

Yet  we  live  so,  all  of  us,  I  think, 

Hiding  whatever  of  truth  we  choose, 

And   deceiving   ourselves   with  a  sub- 
til ty 
That  never  a  soul  but  our  own  could 


We  see  the  love  in  another's  eyes, 
Where  our  own,  reflected,  is  back- 
ward sent ; 


244 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Or  we   hear   a   tone,  that  is   not   in  a 

tone, 
And  find  a  meaning  that  is  not  meant. 

We  put  our  faith  in  the  help  of  those 
Who  never  have  been  a  help  at  all  ; 
And  lean    on   an   object  that    all    the 

while 

We  know  we  are  holding  back  from 
its  fall  ! 

When  words  seem  thoughtless,  or  deed 

unkind, 
We  are  soothed  with  the  kind  intent 

instead ; 

And  we  say  of  the  absent,  silent  one  : 
He  is   faithful  —  but   he  is   sick,  or 
dead  ! 

We    have    loved    some    dear   familiar 

step, 
That  once  in  its  fall   was  firm   and 

clear  ; 
And  that   household   music's  sweetest 

sound 
Came  fainter  every  day  to  our  ear  ; 

And   then   we   have  talked  of  the  far- 
away — 
Of  the  springs  to  come  and  the  years 

to  be, 
When  the  rose  should   bloom  in  our 

dear  one's  cheek, 

And   her  feet    should    tread  in   the 
meadows  free  ! 

We  have  turned  from  death,  to  speak 

of  life, 
When  we  knew  that  earthly  hope  was 

past ; 
Yet  thinking  that  somehow,  God  would 

work 
A  miracle  for  us,  to  the  last. 

We  have  seen  the  bed  of  a  cherished 

friend 

Pushing  daily  nearer  and  nearer,  till 
It  stood  at  the  very  edge  of  the  grave, 
And  we  looked  across  and  beyond  it, 
still. 

Aye,  more  than  this  —  we  have   come 

and  gazed 
Down  where  that  dear  one's  mortal 

part 
Was   lowered   forever  away  from   our 

sight ; 
And  we  did  not  die  of  a  broken  heart. 


Are  we  blind  !  nay,  we  know  the  world 

unknown 
Is   all    we   would   make  the  present 

seem  ; 
That   our   Father   keeps,  till   his   own 

good  time, 

The  things  we  dream  of,   and  more 
than  we  dream. 

For  we  shall  not  sleep  ;  but  we  shall  be 

changed  ; 
And  when  that  change  at  the  last  is 

made, 

We  shall  bring  realities  face  to  face 
With  our  souls,  and  we  shall  not  be 
afraid. 


MY  LADY. 

As  violets,  modest,  tender-eyed, 
The  light  of  their  beauty  love  to  hide 

In  deepest  solitudes  ; 
Even  thus  to  dwell  unseen,  she  chose, 
My  flower  of  womanhood,  my  rose, 

My  lady  of  the  woods  ! 

Full  of  the  deepest,  truest  thought, 
Doing  the  very  things  she  ought, 

Stooping  to  all  good  deeds  : 
Her  eyes  too  pure  to  shrink  from  such, 
And  her  hands  too  clean  to  fear  the 
touch 

Of  the  sinfulest  in  his  needs. 

There  is  no  line  of  beauty  or  grace 
That  was  not  found  in  her  pleasant  face, 

And  no  heart  can  ever  stir, 
With  a  sense  of  human  wants  and  needs, 
With  promptings  unto  the  holiest  deeds, 

But  had  their  birth  in  her. 

With  never  a  taint  of  the  world's  un- 
truth, 

She  lived  from  infancy  to  youth, 
From  youth  to  womanhood  : 
Taking  no  soil  in  the  ways  she  trod, 
But  pure  as  she  came  from  the  hand  of 

God, 
Before  his  face  she  stood. 

My  sweetest  darling,  my  tenderest  care ! 
The  hardest  thing  that  I  have  to  bear 

Is  to  know  my  work  is  past  ; 
That  nothing  now  I  can  say  or  do 
Will  bring  any  comfort  or  aid  to  you,  — 

I  have  said  and  done  the  last. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING. 


245 


Yet  I  know  I  never  was  good  enough, 
That  my  tenderest  efforts  were  all  too 

rough 

To  help  a  soul  so  fine  ; 
So   the    lovingest    angel   among   them 

all, 

Whose  touches  fell,  with  the  softest  fall, 
Has  pushed  my  hand  from  thine  ! 


PASSING   FEET. 

ALL  these  hours  she  sits  and  counts, 
As  they  pass  her  slow  and  sad, 

Are  the  headsmen  cutting  off 
Every  flower  of  hope  she  had  ; 

And  the  feet  that  come  and  go 
In  the  darkness  past  her  door, 

If  they  trod  upon  her  heart, 
Could  not  pain  it  any  more. 

Friends  hastening  now  to  friends, 
Faster  as  the  night  grows  late  ; 

Through  all  places  men  can  go, 
To  all  homes  where  women  wait. 

Some  are  pressing  through  the  wood 
Where  the  path  is  faint  and  new ; 

Some  strike  out  a  shorter  way, 
Across  meadows  wet  with  dew. 

Some,  along  the  highway's  track, 
"Music  to  their  footsteps  keep; 

Some  are  pushing  into  port, 
From  their  exile  on  the  deep. 

But  the  hope  she  had  at  eve 

From  her  wretched  soul  has  fled  ; 

For  the  lamp  of  love  she  lit 

Has  burned  useless,  and  is  dead. 

So  the  feet  that  come  and  go, 
In  the  darkness  past  her  door, 

If  they  trod  upon  her  heart 
Could  not  pain  it  any  more  ! 


MY   RICHES. 

THERE  is  no  comfort  in  the  world 
But  I,  in  thought,  have  known  ; 

No  bliss  for  any  human  heart, 
I  have  not  dreamed  my  own  ; 

And  fancied  joys  may  sometimes  be 

More  real  than  reality. 


I  have  a  house  in  which  to  live, 
Pleasant,  and  fair,  and  good, 

Its  hearth  is  crowned  with  warmth  and 

light, 
Its  board  with  daintiest  food. 

And  I,  when  tired  with  care  or  doubt, 

Go  in  and  shut  my  sorrows  out. 

I  have  a  father,  one  whose  care 
Goes  with  me  where  I  roam ; 

A  mother,  waiting  anxiously 
To  see  her  child  come  home  ; 

And  sisters,  from  whose  tender  eyes 

The  love  in  mine  hath  sweet  replies. 

I  have  a  friend,  who  sees  in  me 

What  none  beside  can  see, 
Not  faultless,  but  as  firm  and  true, 

And  pure,  as  man  may  be  ; 
A  friend,  whose  love  is  never  dim, 
And  I  can  never  change  to  him. 

My  boys  are  very  gentle  boys, 

And  after  they  are  grown, 
|  They  're  nobler,  better,  braver  men 

Than  any  I  have  known  ! 
And  all  my  girls  are  fair  and  good 
From  infancy  to  womanhood 

So  with  few  blessings  in  the  world 

That  men  can  see  or  name, 
Home,  love,  and  all  that  love  can  bring, 

My  mind  has  power  to  claim  ; 
And  life  can  never  cease  to  be 
A  good  and  pleasant  thing  to  me. 


FIGS   OF  THISTLES. 

As  laborers  set  in  a  vineyard 

Are  we  set  in  life's  field, 
To  plant  and  to  garner  the  harvest 

Our  future  shall  yield. 

And  never  since  harvests  were  ripened, 

Or  laborers  born, 
Have  men  gathered  figs  of  the  thistle, 

Or  grapes  of  the  thorn  ! 

Even  he  who  has  faithfully  scattered 

Clean  seed  in  the  ground, 
Has  seen,  where   the  green  blade  was 
growing, 

Tares  of  evil  abound. 

Our  labor  ends  not  with  the  planting, 
Sure  watch  must  we  keep, 


246 


THE  POEMS  OF  PIKE  BE   GARY. 


For  the  enemy  sows  in  the  night-time 
While  husbandmen  sleep. 

And  sins,  all  unsought  and  unbidden, 

Take  root  in  the  mind  ; 
As  the  weeds   grow,  to  choke   up   the 
blossoms 

Chance-sown  by  the  wind. 

But    no   good   crop,   our   hands   never 

planted, 

Doth  Providence  send  ; 
Nor  doth  that  which  we  planted  have 

increase 
Till  we  water  and  tend. 

By  our  fruits,  whether   good,  whether 
evil, 

At  last  are  we  shown  ; 
And  he  who  has  nothing  to  gather, 

By  his  lack  shall  be  known. 

And  no  useless  creature  escapeth 

His  righteous  reward  ; 
For  the  tree  or  the  soul  that  is  barren 

Is  cursed  of  the  Lord  ! 


IMPATIENCE. 

WILL  the  mocking   daylight   never  be 
done  : 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
O  weary  sun  !  O  merciless  sun  ! 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting  ! 

And  yet,  if  the  days  could  come  and  go 
As  fast  as  I  count  them  over, 

They  would  seem  to  me   like  years,  I 

know, 
Till  they  brought  me  back  my  lover. 

Down  through  the  valleys,  down  to  the 

south, 

O  west  wind,  go  with  fleetness, 
Kiss,   with   your   daintiest    kisses,    his 

mouth, 
And  bring  to  me  all  its  sweetness. 

Go  when,  he  lieth  in  slumber  deep, 
And  put  your  arms  about  him, 

And  hear  if  he  whisper  my  name  in  his 

sleep, 
And  tell  him,  I  die  without  him. 

O  birds,  that  sail  in  the  air  like  ships, 
To  me  such  discord  bringing, 


If  you  heard  the  sound  of  my  lover's 

lips, 

You  would  be  ashamed  of  your  sing- 
ing ! 

O  rose,  from  whose  heart  such  a  crim- 
son rain 

Up  to  your  soft  cheek  gushes, 
You  never  could  show  your  face  again, 

If  you  saw  my  lover's  blushes  ! 

O  hateful  stars,  in  hateful  skies, 
Can  you  think  your  light  is  tender, 

When  you  steal  it  all  from  my  lover's 

eyes, 
And  shine  with  a  borrowed  splendor 

O  sun,  going  over  the  western  wall, 
If  you  stay  there  none  will  heed  you; 

For  why  should  you  rise  or  shine  at  all 
When  he  is  not  here  to  need  you  ? 

Will    the   mocking    daylight   never   be 
done  ? 

Is  the  moon  her  hour  forgetting  ? 
O  weary  sun  !  O  merciless  sun  ! 

You  have  grown  so  slow  in  setting  ! 


THOU    AND   I. 

STRANGE,  strange  for  thee  and  me, 

Sadly  afar  ; 
Thou  safe  beyond,  above, 

I  'neath  the  star  ; 
Thou  where  flowers  deathless  spring, 

I  where  they  fade  ; 
Thou  in  God's  paradise, 

I  'mid  time's  shade  ! 

Thou  where  each  gale  breathes  balm, 

I  tempest-tossed  ; 
Thou  where  true  joy  is  found, 

I  where  't  is  lost ; 
Thou  counting  ages  thine, 

I  not  the  morrow  ; 
Thou  learning  more  of  bliss, 

I  more  of  sorrow. 

Thou  in  eternal  peace, 

I  'mid  earth's  strife ; 
Thou  where  care  hath  no  name, 

I  where  't  is  life  ; 
Thou  without  need  of  hope, 

I  where  't  is  vain  ; 
Thou  with  wings  dropping  light, 

I  with  time's  chain. 


POEMS  OF  THOUGHT  AND  FEELING.  247 

not  strike  such  a  little 


Strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me, 

Loved,  loving  ever  ; 
Thou  by  Life's  deathless  fount, 

I  near  Death's  river ; 
Thou  winning  Wisdom's  love, 

I  strength  to  trust ; 
Thou  'mid  the  seraphim, 

I  in  the  dust ! 


NOBODY'S   CHILD. 

ONLY  a  newsboy,  under  the  light 

Of  the  lamp-post  plying  his  trade  in 

vain  : 

Men  are  too  busy  to  stop  to-night, 
Hurrying  home  through  the  sleet  and 

rain. 
Never  since  dark  a  paper  sold  j 

Where  shall  he  sleep,  or  how  be  fed  ? 
He  thinks  as  he  shivers  there  in  the 

cold, 
While  happy  children  are  safe  abed. 

Is  it  strange  if  he  turns  about 

With    angry   words,   then   comes    to 

blows, 
When  his  little  neighbor,  just  sold  out, 

Tossing  his  pennies,  past  him  goes  ? 
"  Stop  !  " —  some    one    looks    at    him, 

sweet  and  mild, 

And  the  voice  that  speaks  is  a  tender 
one : 


"You  should 

child, 

And  you  should  not  use  such  words, 
my  son ! " 

Is  it  his  anger  or  his  fears 
That    have    hushed    his    voice    and 

stopped  his  arm  ? 
"Don't  tremble,"  these  are  the  words 

he  hears ; 
"  Do  you  think  that  I  would  do  you 

harm  ? " 
"  It  is  n't   that,"  and   the   hand  drops 

down  ; 
"  I    would  n't    care    for    kicks    and 

blows ; 
But  nobody  ever  called  me  son, 

Because      I  'm     nobody's     child,     I 
s'pose." 

O  men  !  as  ye  careless  pass  along, 
Remember  the  love   that  has  cared 

for  you  ; 
And  blush  for  the  awful  shame  and 

wrong 
Of  a  world  where  such  a  thing  could 

be  true  ! 
Think  what  the  child  at  your  knee  had 

been 

If  thus  on  life's  lonely  billows  tossed  ; 
And  who  shall  bear  the  weight  of  the 

sin, 
If  one  of  these  "  little  ones  "  be  lost ! 


POEMS 


OF 


NATURE    AND    HOME. 


AN  APRIL  WELCOME. 

COME  up,  April,  through  the  valley, 

In  your  robes  of  beauty  drest, 
Come  and  wake  your  flowery  children 

From  their  wintry  beds  of  rest; 
Come  and  overblow  them  softly 

With  the  sweet  breath  of  the  south ; 
Drop  upon  them,  warm  and  loving, 

Tenderest  kisses  of  your  mouth. 

Touch  them  with  your  rosy  fingers, 

Wake  them  with  your  pleasant  tread, 
Push  away  the  leaf -brown  covers, 

Over  all  their  faces  spread  ; 
Tell  them  how  the  sun  is  waiting 

Longer  daily  in  the  skies, 
Looking  for  the  bright  uplifting 

Of  their  softly-fringed  eyes. 

Call  the  crow-foot  and  the  crocus, 

Call  the  pale  anemone, 
Call  the  violet  and  the  daisy, 

Clothed  with  careful  modesty  ; 
Seek  the  low  and  humble  blossoms, 

Of  their  beauties  unaware, 
Let  the  dandelion  and  fennel, 

Show  their  shining  yellow  hair. 

Bid  the  little  homely  sparrows 

Chirping,  in  the  cold  and  rain, 
Their  impatient  sweet  complaining, 

Sing  out  from  their  hearts  again  ; 
Bid  them  set  themselves  to  mating, 

Cooling  love  in  softest  words, 
Crowd  their  nests,  all  cold  and  empty, 

Full  of  little  callow  birds. 

Come  up,  April,  through  the  valley, 
Where  the  fountain  sleeps  to-day, 

Let  him,  freed  from  icy  fetters, 
Go  rejoicing  on  his  way  ; 

Through  the  flower-enameled  meadows 
Let  him  run  his  laughing  race, 


Making  love  to  all  the  blossoms 
That  o'erlean  and  kiss  his  face. 

But  not  birds  and  blossoms  only, 

Not  alone  the  streams  complain, 
Men  and  maidens  too  are  calling, 

Come  up,  April,  come  again  ! 
Waiting  with  the  sweet  impatience 

Of  a  lover  for  the  hours 
They  shall  set  the  tender  beauty 

Of  thy  feet  among  the  flowers  ! 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S    HOUSE. 

IN  the  years  that  now  are  dead  and 

gone  — 

Aye,  dead,  but  ne'er  forgot  — 
My    neighbor's    stately    house    looked 

down 
On  the  walls  of  my  humble  cot. 

I  had  my  flowers  and  trees,  't  is  true, 
But  they  looked  not  fine  and  tall 

As  my  neighbor's  flowers  and  trees,  that 

grew 
On  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

Through   the   autumn   leaves   his   ripe 

fruits  gleamed 
With  richer  tints  than  mine, 
And   his  grapes   in   the   summer   sun- 
shine seemed 
More  full  of  precious  wine. 

Through   garden   walk   and    bower   I 
stray 

Unbidden  now  and  free  ; 
For  my  neighbor  long  has  passed  away, 

And  his  wealth  has  come  to  me. 

I  pace  those  stately  halls  at  last, 
But  a  darker  shadow  falls 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


249 


Within  the  nouse  than  once  it  cast 
On  my  lowly  cottage  walls. 

I  pluck  the  fruit,  the  wine  I  waste, 
I  drag  through  the  weary  hours  ; 

But  the  fruit  is  bitter  to  my  taste, 
And  I  tire  of  the  scent  of  flowers. 

And  I  'd  take  my  poverty  instead 
And  all  that  I  have  resign, 

To  feel  as  I  felt  when  I  coveted 
The  wealth  that  now  is  mine. 


THE  FORTUNE  IN  THE  DAISY. 

OF  what  are  you  dreaming,  my  pretty 

maid, 

With  your  feet  in  the  summer  clover  ? 
Ah  !  you  need   not  hang  your  modest 

head  : 
I  know  't  is  about  your  lover. 

I  know  by  the  blushes  on  your  cheek, 
Though  you   strive   to   hide   the  to- 
ken ; 

And  I  know  because  you  will  not  speak, 
The  thought  that  is  unspoken. 

You  are  counting  the  petals,  one  by  one, 
Of  your  dainty,  dewy  posies, 

To  find  from  their  number,  when  't  is 

done, 
The  secret  it  discloses. 

You  would  see  if  he  comes  with  gold 

and  land  — 

The  lover  that  is  to  woo  you  ; 
Or  only  brings  his  heart  and  his  hand, 
For  your  heart  and  your  hand  to  sue 
you. 

Beware,  beware,  what  you  say  and  do, 
Fair  maid,  with  your  feet  in  the  clo- 
ver ; 

For  the  poorest  man  that  comes  to  woo, 
May  be  the  richest  lover  ! 

Since  not  by  outward  show  and  sign     « 
Can   you  reckon  worth's  true  meas- 
ure, 

Who  only  is  rich  in  soul  and  mind, 
May  offer  the  greatest  treasure. 

Ah  !  there  never  was    power  in  gems 

alone 
To  bind  a  brow  from  aching  ; 


Nor  strength  enough  in  a  jeweled  zone 
To  hold  a  heart  from  breaking. 

Then  be  not  caught  by  the  sheen  and 
glare 

Of  worldly  wealth  and  splendor  ; 
But  speak  him  soft,  and  speak  him  fair, 

Whose  heart  is  true  and  tender. 

You  may  wear  your  virtues  as  a  crown, 
As  you  walk  through  life  serenely  ; 

And  grace  your  simple  rustic  gown 
With  a  beauty  more  than  queenly  — 

Though  only  one  for  you  shall  care, 
One  only  speak  your  praises  ; 

And  you  never  wear,  in  your  shining 

hair, 
A  richer  flower  than  daisies  ! 


A  PICTURE. 

HER  brown  hair  plainly  put  away 
Under  her  broad  hat's  rustic  brim  ; 

That  threw  across  her  placid  brow 
Its  veil-like  shadow,  cool  and  dim  : 

Her  shut  lips  sweet  as  if  they  moved 
Only  to  accents  good  and  true  ; 

Her  eyes   down-dropt,  yet   bright  and 

clear 
As  violets  shining  out  of  dew  : 

And  folded  close  together  now 

The    tender    hands    that  seemed  to 
prove 

Their  wondrous  fitness  to  perform 
The  works  of  charitable  love. 

Such  is  her  picture,  but  too  fair 
For  pencil  or  for  pen  to  paint ; 

For  who  could  show  you  all  in  one 
The  child,  the  woman,  and  the  saint  ? 

I  needs  must  fail  ;  for  mortal  hand 
Her  full  completeness  may  not  trace, 

Whose  meek  and  quiet  spirit  gives 
Heaven's  beauty  to  an  earthly  face  ! 


FAITH. 

DEAR,  gentle  Faith  !  on  the  sheltered 

porch 
She  used  to  sit  by  the  hour, 


250 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


As  still  and  white  as  the  whitest  rose 

That  graced  the  vines  of  her  bower. 
She  watched  the  motes  in  the  sun,  the 
bees, 

And  the  glad  birds  come  and  go  ; 
The  butterflies,  and  the  children  bright 

That  chased  them  to  and  fro. 
She  saw  them  happy,  one  and  all, 

And  she  said  that  God  was  good  ; 
Though  she  never  had  walked  on  the 
sweet  green  grass, 

And,  alas  !  she  never  would  ! 

She  saw  the  happy  maid  fulfill 

Her  woman's  destiny ; 
The  trusting  bride  on  the  lover's  arm, 

And  the  babe  on  the  mother's  knee. 
She  folded  meek,  her  empty  hands, 

And  she  blest  them,  all  and  each, 
While  the  treasure  that  she  coveted 

Was  put  beyond  her  reach. 

"  Yea,  if  God  wills  it  so,"  she  said, 
"  Even  so  't  is  mine  to  live. 

What  to  withhold  He  knoweth  best, 
As  well  as  what  to  give  !  " 

At  last,  for  her,  the  very  sight 

Of  the  good,  fair  earth  was  done. 
She   could   not   reach    the   porch,   nor 

see 

.  The  grass,  nor  the  motes  in  the  sun  ; 
Yet  still  her  smile  of  sweet  content 

Made  heavenly  all  the  place, 
As  if  they  sat  about  her  bed 

Who  see  the  Father's  face  ; 
For  to  his  will  she  bent  her  head, 

As  bends  to  the  rain  the  rose. 
"  We   know    not   what    is    best,"    she 

said  ; 
"  We  only  know  He  knows  !  " 

Poor,    crippled-    Faith  !    glad,     happy 

Faith  ! 

Even  in  affliction  blest  ; 
For  she  made  the  cross  we  thought  so 

hard 

A  sweet  support  and  rest 
Wise,  trusting  Faith  !  when   she  gave 

her  hand 

To  One  we  could  not  see, 
She  told  us  all  she  was  happier 

Than  we  could  ever  be. 
And  we  knew  she  thought  how  her  feet, 

that  ne'er 

On  the  good,  green  earth  had  trod, 
Would  walk  at  last  on  the  lily-beds 
That  bloom  in  the  smile  of  God  ! 


TO  AN  ELF  ON  A  BUTTERCUP 

CUNNING  little  fairy, 

Where  the  breezes  blow, 
Rocking  in  a  buttercup, 

Lightly  to  and  fro ; 
Little  folks  for  nothing 

Look  not  so  demure  ; 
You  are  planning  mischief, 

I  am  very  sure  ! 

You  will  soon  be  dancing 

Down  beside  the  spring  ; 
On  the  velvet  meadow, 

In  a  fairy  ring  ; 
Spoiling  where  the  ewes  feed 

All  the  tender  grass  ; 
And  making  charmed  circles, 

Mortals  dare  not  pass. 

Darkening  light  where  lovers 

Modest  sit  apart, 
You  will  kiss  the  maiden, 

With  your  wicked  art ; 
Make  her  think  her  wooer 

Woefully  to  blame  ; 
Through  her  frowns  and  blushes 

Crying  out,  "For  shame  !" 

Ah  !  my  little  fairy, 

With  your  mystic  charms, 
You  have  slipped  the  infant 

From  its  mother's  arms  ; 
And  have  left  a  changeling 

In  its  place  at  night ; 
While  you  turned  the  mortal 

To  a  tricksy  sprite. 

Thus  you  mix  folks  up  so, 

Wicked,  willful  elf  ; 
Never  one  of  us  can  know 

If  he  be  himself  : 
And  sitting  here  and  telling 

Of  the  tricks  you  do  ; 
I  wonder  whether  I  am  I, 

Or  whether  I  am  you  ! 


PROVIDENCE. 

"  AH  !  what  will  become  of  the  lily, 
When  the  summer-time  is  dead  ? 

Must  she  lay  her  spotless  robes  away, 
And  hide  in  the  dust  her  head  ? " " 

"  My  child,  the  hand  that  bows  her  head 
Can  lift  it  up  anew ; 


UK  TR 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME, 


C 


And  weave  another  shining  robe 
Of  sunshine  and  of  dew." 

"  But,  father,  what  will  the  sparrows  do  ? 

Though  they  chirp  so  blithe  and  bold, 
When  the  shelter  of  the  leaves  is  gone 

They  must  perish  with  the  cold." 

"  The  sparrows  are  little    things,  my 
child, 

And  the  cold  is  hard  to  bear ; 
Yet  never  one  of  these  shall  fall 

Without  our  Father's  care." 

"But  how  will  the  tender  lambs  be 
clothed  ? 

For  you  know  the  shepherd  said, 
He  must  take  their  fleeces  all  away, 

For  us  to  wear  instead." 

"  They   are   warm   enough   to-day,  my 
child, 

And  so  soon  their  fleeces  grow, 
They  each  will  have  another  one 

Before  they  feel  the  snow." 

"  I  know  you  will  keep  me,  father  , 
That  1  shall  be  clothed  and  fed  ; 

But    suppose    that    I    were    lost   from 

home, 
Oh,  suppose  that  you  were  dead  !  " 

"  My  child,  there  is  One  who  seeks  you, 
No  matter  where  you  roam  ; 

And  you  may  not  stray  so  far  away, 
That  He  cannot  bring  you  home." 

"  For  you  have  a  better  Father, 

In  a  better  home  above  ; 
And  the  very  hairs  of  your  precious 
head 

Are  numbered  by  his  love  !  " 


OLD  PICTURES. 

OLD  pictures,  faded  long,  to-night 
Come     out     revealed    by    memory's 
gleam  ; 

And  years  of  checkered  dark  and  light 
Vanish  behind  me  like  a  dream. 

I  see  the  cottage,  brown  and  low, 
The    rustic    porch,    the    roof-tree's 
shade, 

And  all  the  place  where  long  ago 
A  group  of  happy  children  played. 


I  see  the  brother,  bravest 

The  prompt  to  act,  the  4__ 

The  baby,  clear  and  honored  guest ! 

The  timid  sister,  shy  and  meek. 

I  see  her  loving  face  who  oft 

Watched,  that  their  slumbers  might 

be  sweet ; 
And  nis  whose  dear  hand  made  so  soft 

The  path  for  all  their  tender  feet. 

I  see,  far  off,  the  woods  whose  screen 
Bounded  the  little  world  we  knew ; 

And  near,  in  fairy  rings  of  green, 

The  grass  that  round  the  door-stones 
grew. 

I  watch  at  morn  the  oxen  come, 
And   bow  their  meek  necks  to  the 
yoke; 

Or  stand  at  noontide,  patient,  dumb, 
In  the  great  shadow  of  the  oak. 

The  barn  with  crowded  mows  of  hay, 
And  roof  upheld  by  golden  sheaves  ; 

Its  rows  of  doves,  at  close  of  day, 
Cooing  together  on  the  eaves. 

I  see,  above  the  garden-beds, 

The  bee  at  work  with  laden  wing  ; 

The  dandelions'  yellow  heads 

Crowding  about  the  orchard  spring  ; 

The  little,  sweet-voiced,  homely  thrush  ; 

The    field-lark,    with    her    speckled 

breast ; 
The  finches  in  the  currant-bush  ; 

And   where    the   bluebirds  hid  their 


I  see  the  comely  apple-trees, 

In    spring,    a-blush    with     blossoms 

sweet ; 
Or,  bending  with  the  autumn  breeze, 

Shake  down  their  ripe  fruits  at  our  feet. 

I  see,  when  hurtling  through  the  air 
The  arrows  of  the  winter  fly, 

And  all  the  frozen  earth  lies  bare, 
A  group  about  the  hearth  draw  nigh, 

Of  little  ones  that  never  tire 
Of  stories  told  and  told  again  ; 

I  see  the  pictures  in  the  fire, 
The  firelight  pictures  in  the  pane. 

I  almost  feel  the  stir  and  buzz 
Of  day  ;  the  evening's  holy  calm  ; 


252 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Yea,  all  that  made  me  what  I  was, 
And  helped  to  make  me  what  I  am. 

Then  lo  !  it  dies,  as  died  our  youth  ; 

And  things  so  strange  about  me  seem, 
I  know  not  what  should  be  the  truth, 

Nor  whether  I  would  wake  or  dream. 

I  have  not  found  to-day  so  vain,  • 
Nor  yesterday  so  fair  and  good, 

That  I  would  have  my  life  again, 
And  live  it  over  if  I  could. 

Not  every  hope  for  me  has  proved 
A  house  on  weak  foundation  built ; 

I  have  not  seen  the  feet  I  loved 
Caught  in  the  awful  snares  of  guilt. 

But  when  I  see  the  paths  so  hard 
Kept  soft  and  smooth  in  days  gone 

by; 
The  lives  that   years    have  made    or 

marred, 
Out  of  my  loneliness  I  cry  : 

Oh,  for  the  friends  that  made  so  bright 
The  days,  alas  !  too  soon  to  wane  ! 

Oh,  but  to  be  one  hour  to-night 
Set  in  their  midst,  a  child  again  ! 


THE  PLAYMATES. 

Two  careless,  happy  children, 

Up  when  the  east  was  red, 
And  never  tired  and  never  still 

Till  the  sun  had  gone  to  bed ; 
Helping  the  winds  in  winter 

To  toss  the  snows  about ; 
Gathering  the  early  flowers, 

When  spring-time  called  them  out 
Playing  among  the  windrows 

Where  the  mowers  mowed  the  hay 
Finding  the  place  where  the  skylark 

Had  hidden  her  nest  away  ; 
Treading  the  cool,  damp  furrows 

Behind  the  shining  plough  ; 
Up  in  the  barn  with  the  swallows, 

And  sliding  over  the  mow  ; 
Pleased  with  the  same  old  stones, 

Heard  a  thousand  times  ; 
Believing  all  the  wonders 

Written  in  tales  or  rhymes  ; 
Counting  the  hours  in  summer 

When  even  a  day  seemed  long ; 
Counting  the  hours  in  winter 

Till  the  time  of  leaves  and  song. 


Thinking  it  took  forever 

For  little  children  to  grow, 
And  that  seventy  years  of  a  life-time 

Never  could  come  and  go. 
Oh,  I  know  they  were  happier  children 

Than  the  world  again  may  see, 
For  one  was  my  little  playmate, 

And  one,  ah  !  one  was  me  ! 

A  sad -faced  man  and  woman, 

Leagues  and  leagues  apart, 
Doing  their  work  as  best  they  may 

With  weary  hand  and  heart ; 
Shrinking  from  winter's  tempests, 

And  summer's  burning  heat ; 
Thinking  that  skies  were  brighter 

And  flowers  were  once  more  sweet : 
Wondering  why  the  skylark 

So  early  tries  his  wings  ; 
And  if  green  fields  are  hidden 

Beyond  the  gate  where  he  sings  ! 
Feeling  that  time  is  slipping 

Faster  and  faster  away  ; 
That  a  day  is  but  as  a  moment, 

And  the  years  of  life  as  a  day  ; 
Seeing  the  heights  and  places 

Others  have  reached  and  won  ; 
Sighing  o'er  things  accomplished, 

And  things  that  are  left  undone  ; 
And  yet  still  trusting,  somehow, 

In  his  own  good  time  to  become 
Again  as  little  children, 

In  their  Heavenly  Father's  home  ; 
One  crowding  memories  backward, 

In  the  busy,  restless  mart, 
One  pondering  on  them  ever, 

And  keeping  them  in  her  heart ; 
Going  on  by  their  separate  pathways 

To  the  same  eternity  — 
And  one  of  these  is  my  playmate, 

And  one,  alas  !  is  me  ! 


"THE   BAREFOOT   BOY.' 


led 


AH  !  "  Barefoot  Boy  !  "  you   have 

me  back 

O'er  the  waste  of  years  profound, 
To  the  still,  sweet  spots,  which  memory 

Hath  kept  as  haunted  ground. 
You  have  led  me  back  to  the  western 

hills, 
Where  I  played  through  the  summer 

hours  ; 

And  called  my  little  playmate  up 
To  stand  among  the  flowers. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


253 


We    are    hand  in   hand  in  the  fields 
again, 

We  are  treading  through  the  dew  ! 
And  not  the  poet's  "  barefoot  boy," 

Nor  him  the  artist  drew, 
Is  half  so  brave  and  bold  and  good, 

Though  bright  their  colors  glow, 
As  the  darling  playmate  that  I  had 

And  lost,  so  long  ago  ! 

I  touch  the  spring-time's  tender  grass, 

I  find  the  daisy  buds  ; 
I  feel  the  shadows  deep  and  cool, 

In  the  heart  of  the  summer  woods  ; 
I  see  the  ripened  autumn  nuts, 

Like  thick  hail  strew  the  earth  ; 
I  catch  the  fall  of  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  glow  of  the  cheerful  hearth  ! 

But  alas  !    my   playmate,    loved    and 
lost, 

My  heart  is  full  of  tears, 
For  the  dead  and  buried  hopes,  that  are 
more 

Than  our  dead  and  buried  years  : 
And  I  cannot  see  the  poet's  rhymes, 

Nor  the  lines  the  artist  drew, 
But  only  the  boy  that  held  my  hand, 

And  led  my  feet  through  the  dew  ! 


WINTER   FLOWERS. 

THOUGH    Nature's    lonesome,   leafless 

bowers, 

With  winter's  awful  snows  are  white, 
The  tender  smell  of  leaves  and  flow- 
ers 

Makes    May-time    in    my   room   to- 
night : 

While  some,  in  homeless  poverty, 
Shrink  moaning  from  the  bitter  blast ; 

What  am  I,  that  my  lines  should  be 
In  good  and  pleasant  places  cast  ? 

When  other  souls  despairing  stand, 
And    plead    with    famished  lips  to- 
day, 

Why  is  it  that  a  loving  hand 

Should  scatter  blossoms  in  my  way  ? 

O  flowers,  with  soft  and  dewy  eyes, 
To  God  my  gratitude  reveal  ; 

Send  up  your  incense  to  the  skies, 
And  utter,  for  me,  what  I  feel  ! 


O  innocent  roses,  in  your  buds 

Hiding  for  very  modesty  ; 
O  violets,  smelling  of  the  woods, 

Thank  Him,  with  all  your  sweets  for 
me  ! 

And  tell  him,  I  would  give  this  hour 
All  that  is  mine  of  good  beside, 

To  have  the  pure  heart  of  a  flower, 
That  has  no  stain  of  sin  to  hide. 


MARCH   CROCUSES. 

0  FICKLE  and  uncertain  March, 
How  could  you  have  the  heart, 

To  make  the  tender  crocuses 
From  their  beds  untimely  start  ? 

Those  foolish,  unsuspecting  flowers, 

Too  credulous  to  see 
That  the  sweetest  promises  of  March 

Are  not  May's  certainty. 

When  you   smiled  a  few  short   hours 
ago, 

What  said  your  whisper,  light, 
That  made  them  lift  their  pretty  heads 

So  hopeful  and  so  bright  ? 

1  could  not  catch  a  single  word, 
But  I  saw  your  light  caress  ; 

And  heard  your  rough  voice   softened 

down 
To  a  lover's  tenderness. 

O  cruel  and  perfidious  month, 

It  m£kes  me  sick  and  sad, 
To  think  how  yesterday  your  smile 

Made  all  the  blossoms  glad  ! 

O  trustful,  unsuspecting  flowers, 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  know, 

That  all  your  golden  heads  to-day 
Are  underneath  the  snow  ! 


HOMESICK. 

COMFORT  me  with  apples  ! 

I  am  sick  unto  death,  I  am  sad  to  de- 
spair ; 

My  trouble  is  more  than  my  strength 
is  to  bear  ; 

Back  again  to  the  green  hills  that  first 
met  my  sight 


254 


THE  POEMS   OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


I  come,  as   a   child  to  its   mother,  to- 
night ;  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Bring   the  ripe   mellow  fruit  from    the 

early  "  sweet  bough,"  — 
(Is  the  tree  that  we  used  to  climb  grow- 
ing there  now  ?) 
And  "russets,"   whose   cheeks  are   as 

freckled  and  dun 
As  the  cheeks  of  the  children  that  play 

in  the  sun  ;  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Gather  those  streaked  with  red,  that  we 

named  •'morning-light." 
Our  good  father  set,  when  his  hair  had 

grown  white, 
The    tree,    though    he    said   when    he 

planted  the  root, 
"  The  hands  of  another  shall  gather  the 

fruit ;  " — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Go  down  to  the  end  of  the  orchard,  and 

bring 
The  fair  "  lady-fingers  "  that  grew  by 

the  spring  ; 
Pale  "  bell-flowers,"  and  "  pippins,"  all 

burnished  with  gold, 
Like  the  fruit  the  Hesperides  guarded 

of  old ;  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
Get  the  sweet  "junietta,"  so  Iflved  by 

the  bees, 
And  the  "  pearmain,"  that  grew  on  the 

queen  of  the  trees  ; 
And   close   by   the  brook,  where   they 

hang  ripe  and  lush, 
Go  and  shake  down  the  best  of  them 

all, —  "  maiden's-blush  ;  "  — 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 

Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 
For  lo  !  I  am  sick  ;  I  am  sad  and  op- 

prest  ; 
I  come  back  to  the  place  where,  a  child, 

I  was  blest. 
Hope  is  false,  love  is  vain,  for  the  old 

things  I  sigh  ;* 
And  if  these  cannot  comfort  me,  then  I 

must  die  ! 
Comfort  me  with  apples  ! 


"FIELD    PREACHING." 

I  HAVE   been   out   to-day  in   field   and 

wood, 
Listening  to  praises  sweet  and  counsel 

good 
Such  as  a  little  child  had  understood, 

That,  in  its  tender  youth, 
Discerns  the  simple  eloquence  of  truth. 

The  modest  blossoms,  crowding  round 

my  way, 
Though  they  had  nothing  great  or  grand 

to  say, 
Gave  out  their  fragrance  to  the  wind  all 

day; 

Because  his  loving  breath, 
With  soft  persistence,  won  them  back 

from  death. 

And  the  right  royal  lily,  putting  on 
Her   robes,   more    rich   than   those    of 

Solomon, 
Opened  her  gorgeous  missal  in  the  sun, 

And  thanked  Him,  soft  and  low, 
Whose     gracious,     liberal     hand     had 

clothed  her  so. 

When  wearied,  on  the  meadow-grass  I 

sank  ; 
So   narrow  was   the  rill  from   which  I 

drank, 
An    infant    might   have    stepped   from 

bank  to  bank  ; 
And  the  tall  rushes  near 
Lapping  together,  hid  its  waters  clear. 

Yet  to  the  ocean  joyously  it  went ; 
And  rippling  in  the  fullness  of  content, 
Watered  the  pretty  flowers  that  o'er  it 

leant ; 

For  all  the  banks  were  spread 
With  delicate  flowers  that  on  its  bounty 

fed. 

The  stately  maize,  a  fair  and  goodly, 

sight, 
With  serried  spear-points  bristling  sharp 

and  bright, 
Shook  out  his  yellow  tresses,  for  delight, 

To  all  their  tawny  length, 
Like    Samson,    glorying    in    his   lusty 

strength. 

And  every  litttle  bird  upon  the  tree, 
Ruffling  his  plumage  bright,  for  ecstasy, 
Sang  in  the  wild  insanity  of  glee  ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


255 


And  seemed,  in  the  same  lays, 
Calling  his  mate  and  uttering  songs  of 
praise. 

The  golde^  grasshopper  did  chirp  and 
sing; 

The  plain  bee,  busy  with  her  housekeep- 
ing, 

Kept    humming    cheerfully    upon    the 

wing, 
As  if  she  understood 

That,  with    contentment,   labor   was   a 
good. 

I  saw  each   creature,  in  his  own  best 

place, 

To  the  Creator  lift  a  smiling  face, 
Praising  continually  his  wondrous  grace; 

As  if  the  best  of  all 

Life's  countless  blessings  was  to  live  at 
all! 

So  with  a  book  of  sermons,  plain  and 

true, 
Hid  in  my  heart,  where   I  might   turn 

them  through, 
I  went  home  softly,  through  the  falling 

dew, 

Still  listening,  rapt  and  calm, 
To  Nature  giving  out  her  evening  psalm. 

While,  far  along  the  west,  mine  eyes 

discerned. 
Where,  lit  by  God,  the  fires  of  sunset 

burned, 
The   tree-tops,    unconsumed,   to  flame 

were  turned ; 

And  I,  in  that  great  hush, 
Talked  with  his  angels  in  each  burning 

bush  ! 


GATHERING  BLACKBERRIES. 

LITTLE  Daisy  smiling  wakes 
From  her  sleep  as  morning  breaks, 

Why,  she  knoweth  well  ; 
Yet  if  you  should  ask  her,  surely 
She  would  answer  you  demurely, 

That  she  cannot  tell. 

Careful  Daisy,  with  no  sound, 
Slips  her  white  feet  to  the  ground, 

Saying,  very  low, 

She  must  rise  and  help  her  mother, 
And  be  ready,  if  her  brother 

Needs  her  aid,  to  go  ! 


Foolish  Daisy,  o'er  her  lips 
Only  that  poor  falsehood  slips, 

Truth  is  in  her  cheeks  ; 
Her  own  words  cannot  deceive  her, 
Her  own  heart  will  not  believe  her 

In  a  blush  it  speaks. 

Daisy  knows  that,  when  the  heat 
Dries  the  dew  upon  the  wheat, 

She  will  be  away  ; 
She  and  Ernest,  just  another 
Who,  she  says,  is  like  a  brother, 

Making  holiday. 

For  the  blackberries  to-day 
Will  be  ripe,  the  reapers  say, 

Ripe  as  they  can  be  ; 
And  not  wholly  for  the  pleasure, 
But  lest  others  find  the  treasure, 

She  must  go  and  see. 

Eager  Daisy,  at  the  gate 
Meeting  Ernest,  scarce  can  wait, 

But  she  checks  her  heart ; 
And  she  says,  her  soft  eyes  beaming 
With  an  innocent,  grave  seeming  ; 

"  Is  it  time  to  start  ?  " 

Cunning  Daisy  tries  to  go 
Very  womanly  and  slow, 

And  to  act  so  well 
That,  if  any  one  had  seen  them, 
With  the  dusty  road  between  them, 

What  was  there  to  tell  ? 

Happy  Daisy,  when  they  gain 
The  green  windings  of  the  lane, 

Where  the  hedge  is  thick  ; 
For  they  find,  beneath  its  shadow, 
Wild  sweet  roses  in  the  meadow, 

More  than  they  can  pick. 

Bending  low,  and  rising  higher, 
Scarlet  pinks  their  lamps  of  fire 

Lightly  swing  about ; 
And  the  wind  that  blows  them  over 
Out  of  sight  among  the  clover, 

Seems  to  blow  them  out  ! 

Doubting  Daisy,  as  she  hies 
Toward  the  field  of  berries,  cries  : 

"What  if  they  be  red?" 
Black  and  ripe  they  find  them  rather, 
Black  and  ripe  enough  to  gather, 

As  the  reapers  said. 

Lucky  Daisy,  Ernest  finds 
Berries  for  her  in  the  vines, 


THE  POEMS  OF  PfKEBE   GARY. 


Hidden  where  she  stands  ; 
And  with  fearless  arm  he  pushes 
Back  the  cruel,  briery  bushes, 

That  would  hurt  her  hands. 

He  would  have  her  hold  her  cup 
Just  for  him  to  fill  it  up, 

But  away  she  trips  ; 
Picking  daintily,  she  lingers 
Till  she  dyes  her  pretty  fingers 

Redder  than  her  lips. 

Thoughtful  Daisy,  what  she  hears, 
What  she  hopes,  or  what  she  fears, 

Who  of  us  can  tell  ? 
For  if,  going  home,  she  carries 
Richer  treasure  than  her  berries, 

She  will  guard  it  well  ! 

Puzzled  Daisy  does  not  know 
Why  the  sun,  who  rises  slow, 

Hurries  overhead ; 
He,  that  lingered  at  the  morning, 
Drops  at  night  with  scarce  a  warning 

On  his  cloudy  bed. 

All  too  narrow  at  the  start 
Seemed  the  path,  they  kept  apart, 

Though  the  way  was  rough  ; 
Now   the   path,    that  through  the  hol- 
low 
Closely  side  by  side  they  follow, 

Seemeth  wide  enough. 

Hopeful  Daisy,  will  the  days 
That  are  brightening  to  her  gaze 

Brighter  grow  than  this  ? 
Will  she,  mornings  without  number, 
Wake  up  restless  from  her  slumber, 

Just  for  happiness  ? 

Will  the  friend  so  kind  to-day, 
Always  push  the  thorns  away, 

With  which  earth  is  rife  ? 
Will  he  be  her  true,  true  lover,  - 
Will  he  make  her  cup  run  over 

With  the  wine  of  life  ? 

Blessed  Daisy,  will  she  be, 
If  above  mortality 

Thus  she  stands  apart ; 
Cursed,  if  the  hand,  unsparing, 
Let  the  thorns  fly  backward,  tearing 

All  her  bleeding  heart ! 

Periled  Daisy,  none  can  know 
What  the  future  has  to  show ; 

There  must  come  what  must ; 


But,  if  blessings  be  forbidden, 
Let  the  truth  awhile  be  hidden  — 
Let  her  hope  and  trust. 

Let  all  women  born  to  weep, 

Their  heart's  breaking  —  all  who  keep 

Hearts  still  young  and  whole, 
Pray,  as  fearing  no  denying, 
Pray  with  me,  as  for  the  dying, 

For  this  maiden's  soul  ! 


OUR  HOMESTEAD. 

OUR  old  brown  homestead  reared  its 

walls 

From  the  way-side  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost 

cast 

Their  fruit  upon  its  roof ; 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

That  when  awake  I  've  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I  've  heard  the 

limbs 

As  'hey  creaked  against  the  pane  ; 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh  those  or- 
chard trees  ! 

I  've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier,  under  the  window-sill, 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 
And  the  damask  rose,  by  the  garden- 
fence, 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I  've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier 

But  not  to  me  so  fair  ; 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh  those  roses 
bright ! 

I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's  locks, 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight. 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And   the   cool    drops    down   from   the 

mossy  stones 
Were  falling  constantly  , 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  the  draught  which  filled  my  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old 

sweep 

That  my  father's  hand  set  up. 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh  that  deep 

old  well  ! 

I  remember  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  HOME. 


257 


Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 
Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet ; 
There  my  mother's  voice   was   always 

kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ; 
And  there  I  've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With   my  childish   hand  in   his   raven 

hair,  — 

That  hair  is  silver  now  ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh  that 

broad  hearth's  light  ! 
And     my   father's     look,     and     my 

mother's  smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night  ! 


SPRING  AFTER  THE   WAR. 

COME,  loveliest  season  of  the  year, 
And  every  quickened  pulse  shall  beat, 

Your  footsteps  in  the  grass  to  hear, 
And  feel  your  kisses,  soft  and  sweet ! 

Come,  and  bestow  new  happiness 
Upon  the  heart  that  hopeful  thrills  ; 

Sing  with  the  lips  that  sing  for  bliss, 
And  laugh  with  children  on  the  hills. 

Lead  dancing  streams   through   mead- 
ows green, 

And  in  the  deep,  deserted  dells 
Where  poets  love  to  walk  unseen, 

Plant  flovvej-s  with  all  delicious  smells. 

To  humble  cabins  kindly  go, 

And  train  your  shady  vines,  to  creep 
About  the  porches,  cool  and  low, 

Where  mothers  rock  their  babes  to 
sleep. 

But  come  with  hushed  and   reverent 

tread, 
And  bring  your  gifts,  most  pure  and 

sweet, 

To  hallowed  places  where  our  dead 
Are  sleeping  underneath  your  feet. 

There  let  the  turf  be  lightly  pressed, 
And  be  your  tears  that  softly  flow 

The  sweetest,  and  the  sacredest, 
That  ever  pity  shed  for  woe  ! 

Scatter  your  holiest  drop  of  dew, 
Sing  hymns  of  sacred  melody  ; 

And  keep  your  choicest  flowers  to  strew 
The  places  where  our  heroes  lie. 
17 


But  most  of  all,  go  watch  about 

The  unknown  beds  of  such  as  sleep, 

Where  love  can  never  find  them  out, 
Nor  faithful  f riendsnip  come  to  weep. 

Go  where  the  ocean  moans  and  cries, 
For  those  her  waters  hide  from  sight ; 

And  where  the  billows  heave  and  rise, 
Scatter   the    flowery   foam  -  wreaths, 
white. 

Aye,  all  your  dearest  treasures  keep  ; 

We  shall  not  miss  them,  but  instead 
Will  give  them  joyfully,  to  heap 

The  holy  altars  of  our  dead  ! 

The  poet  from  his  wood-paths  wild, 
I  know  will  take  his  sweetest  flower, 

The  mother,  singing  to  her  child, 

Will  strip  the  green  vines  from  her 
bower ; 

The  poor  man  from  his  garden  bed 
The  unpretending  blooms  will  spare  ; 

The  lover  give  the  roses  red 

He  gathered  for  his  darling's  hair. 

Yea,  all  thy  gifts  we  love  and  prize 
We  ask  thee  reverently  to  bring, 

And  lay  them  on  the  darkened  eyes, 
That  wait  their  everlasting  spring  ! 


THE  BOOK  OF  NATURE. 

WE  scarce  could  doubt  our  Father's 
power, 

Though  his  greatness  were  untold 
In  the  sacred  record  made  for  us 

By  the  prophet-bards  of  old. 

We  must  have  felt  his  watchfulness 

About  us  everywhere  ; 
Though  we  had  not  learned,  in  the  Holy 
Word, 

How  He  keeps  us  in  his  care. 

I  almost  think  we  should  know  his  love, 
And  dream  of  his  pardoning  grace. 

If  we  never  had  read  how  the  Saviour 

came, 
To  die  for  a  sinful  race. 

For  the  sweetest  parables  of  truth 

In  our  daily  pathway  lie, 
And  we  read,  without  interpreter, 

The  writing  on  the  sky. 


258 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


The  ravens,  fed  when  they  clamor,  teach, 

The  human  heart  to  trust ; 
And  the  rain  of  goodness  speaks,  as  it 
falls 

On  the  unjust  and  the  just. 

The  sunshine  drops,  like  a  leaf  of  gold, 
From  the  book  of  light  above  ; 

And  the  lily's  missal  is  written  full 
Of  the  words  of  a  Father's  love. 

So,   when  we  turn    from    the    sacred 
page 

Where  the  holy  record  lies, 
And  its  gracious  plans  and  promises 

Are  hidden  from  our  eyes  ; 

One  open  volume  still  is  ours, 

To  read  and  understand  ; 
And  its  living  characters  are  writ 

By  our  Father's  loving  hand  ! 


SUGAR-MAKING. 

THE  crocus  rose  from  her  snowy  bed 
As  she  felt  the  spring's  caresses, 

And  the  willow  from  her  graceful  head 
Shook  out  her  yellow  tresses. 

Through  the  crumbling  walls  of  his  icy 
cell 

Stole  the  brook,  a  happy  rover ; 
And  he  made  a  noise  like  a  silver  bell 

In  running  under  and  over. 

The  earth  was  pushing  the   old  dead 

grass 

With  lily  hand  from  her  bosom, 
And  the  sweet  brown  buds  of  the  sas- 
safras 
Could  scarcely  hide  the  blossom. 

And  breaking  nature's  solitude 

Came  the  axe  strokes  clearly  ringing, 

For  the  chopper  was  busy  in  the  wood 
Ere  the  early  birds  were  singing. 

All  day  the  hardy  settler  now 
At  his  tasks  was  toiling  steady  ; 

His  fields  were  cleared,  and  his  shining 

plow 
Was  set  by  the  furrow  ready. 

And  down  in  the  woods,  where  the  sun 

appeared 
Through  the  naked  branches  breaking, 


His  rustic  cabin  had  been  reared  . 
For  the  time  of  sugar-making. 

And   now,   as   about    it   he  came    and 

went, 

Cheerfully  planning  and  toiling, 
His  good  child  sat  there,  with  eyes  in- 
tent 
On  the  fire  and  the  kettles  boiling. 

With  the  beauty  Nature  gave  as  her 

dower, 
And   the    artless    grace   she   taught 

her, 

The  woods  could  boast  no  fairer  flow- 
er, 
Than  Rose,  the  settler's  daughter. 

She  watched  the  pleasant  fire  anear, 
And  her  father  coming  and  going, 

And  her  thoughts  were  all  as  sweet  and 

clear 
As  the  drops  his  pail  o'erflowing. 

For  she  scarce  had  dreamed  of  earthly 
ills, 

And  love  had  never  found  her ; 
She  lived  shut  in  by  the  pleasant  hills 

That  stood  as  a  guard  around  her  ; 

And  she  might  have  lived  the  self -same 
way 

Through  all  the  springs  to  follow, 
But  for  a  youth,  who  came  one  day 

Across  her  in  the  hollow. 

He  did  not  look  like  a  wicked  man, 
And  yet,  when  he  saw  that  blossom, 

He  said,  "  I  will  steal  this  Rose  if  I  can, 
And  hide  it  in  my  bosom." 

That  he  could  be  tired  you   had   not 

guessed 

Had  you  seen  him  lightly  walking  ; 
But  he  must  have  been,  for  he  stopped 

to  rest 
So  long  that  they  fell  to  talking. 

Alas  !  he  was  athirst,  he  said, 

Yet  he  feared  there  was  no  slaking 

The  deep  and  quenchless  thirst  he  had 
For  a  draught  beyond  his  taking. 

Then  she  filled  the  cup  and  gave  to 
him, 

The  settler's  blushing  daughter, 
And  he  looked  at  her  across  the  brim 

As  he  slowly  drank  the  water. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND   HOME. 


259 


And  he  sighed  as  he  put  the  cup  away, 
For  lips  and  soul  were  drinking  ; 

But  what  he  drew  from  her  eyes  that  day 
Was  the  sweetest,  to  his  thinking. 

I  do  not  know  if  her  love  awoke 

Before  his  words  awoke  it ; 
If  she  guessed  at  his  before  he  spoke, 

Or  not  until  he  spoke  it. 

But  howsoe'er  she  made  it  known, 

And  howsoe'er  he  told  her, 
Each  unto  each  the  heart  had  shown 

When  the  year  was  little  older. 

For  oft  he  came  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  to  taste  of  the  sugar-water  ; 

And  she  was  a  settler's  wife  next  year 
Who  had  been  a  settler's  daughter. 

And  now  their  days  are  fair  and  fleet 
As  the  days  of  sugar  weather, 

While  they  drink  the  water,  clear  and 

sweet, 
Of  the  cup  of  life  together. 


SPRING   FLOWERS.1 

0  SWEET  and  charitable  friend, 
Your  gift  of  fragrant  bloom 

1  The  last  poem  written  by  Phoebe  Gary. 


Has  brought  the  spring-time  and  the 

woods, 
To  cheer  my  lonesome  room. 

It  rests  rhy  weary,  aching  eyes, 
And  soothes  my  heart  and  brain ; 

To  see  the  tender  green  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  blossoms  wet  with  rain. 

I  know  not  which  I  love  the  most, 
Nor  which  the  comeliest  shows, 

The  timid,  bashful  violet, 
Or  the  royal-hearted  rose  : 

The  pansy  in  her  purple  dress, 
The  pink  with  cheek  of  red, 

Or  the  faint,  fair  heliotrope,  who  hangs, 
Like  a  bashful  maid,  her  head. 

For  I  love  and  prize  you  one  and  all, 
From  the  least  low  bloom  of  spring 

To  the  lily  fair,  whose  clothes  outshine 
The  raiment  of  a  king. 

And  when  my  soul  considers  these, 
The  sweet,  the  grand,  the  gay, 

I  marvel  how  we  shall  be  clothed 
With  fairer  robes  than  they ; 

And  almost  long  to  sleep,  and  rise 
And  gain  that  fadeless  shore, 

And  put  immortal  splendor  on, 
And  live,  to  die  no  more. 


POEMS 


OF 


LOVE   AND    FRIENDSHIP. 


AMY'S   LOVE-LETTER. 

TURNING  some  papers  carelessly 

That  were   hid   away  in  a  desk  un- 
used, 

I  came  upon  something  yesterday 
O'er  which  I  pondered  and  mused  : 

A  letter,  faded  now  and  dim, 

And  stained  in  places,  as  if  by  tears  ; 
And  yet  I  had  hardly  thought  of  him 

Who  traced  its  pages  for  years. 

Though  once  the  happy  tears  made 'dim 
My  eyes,   and    my   blushing   cheeks 
grew  hot, 

To  have  but  a  single  word  from  him, 
Fond  or  foolish,  no  matter  what. 

If  he  ever  quoted  another's  rhymes, 
Poor    in    themselves    and    common- 
place, 

I  said  them  over  a  thousand  times, 
As  if  he  had  lent  them  a  grace. 

The  single  color  that  pleased  his  taste 
Was  the  only  one  I  would  have,  or 
wear, 

Even  in  the  girdle  about  my  waist 
Or  the  ribbon  that  bound  my  hair. 

Then  my  flowers  were  the  self-same 
kind  and  hue  ; 

And  yet  how  strangely  one  forgets  — 
I  cannot  think  which  one  of  the  two 

It  was,  or  roses  or  violets  ! 

But  oh,  the  visions  I  knew  and  nursed, 
While  I  walked  in  a  world  unseen 

before  ! 
For  my  world  began  when  I  knew  him 

first, 

And    must   end   when   he  came    no 
more. 


We  would  have  died  for  each  other's 

sake, 
Would    have  given  all    else   in   the 

world  below ; 
And    we    said    and    thought    that    Our 

hearts  would  break 
When  we  parted,  years  ago. 

How  the  pain  as  well  as  the  rapture 

seems 

A  shadowy  thing  I  scarce  recall, 
Passed    wholly    out    of    my    life    and 

dreams, 
As  though  it  had  never  been  at  all. 

And  is  this  the  end,  and  is  here  the 

grave 

Of  our  steadfast  love  and  our  change- 
less faith 

About  which  the  poets  sing  and  rave, 
Naming  it  strong  as  death  ? 

At  least  't  is  what  mine  has  come  to  at 

last, 

Stript  of  all  charm  and  all  disguise ; 
And  I  wonder  if,  when  he  thinks  of  the 

past, 
He  thinks  we  were  foolish  or  wise  ? 

Well,    I    am    content,    so    it    matters 

not ; 
And,  speaking  about  him,  some  one 

said  — 

I  wish  I  could  only  remember  what  — 
But  he  's  either  married  or  dead. 


DO  YOU  BLAME  HER? 

NE'ER  lover  spake  in  tenderer  words, 
While  mine  were  calm,  unbroken  ; 

Though  I  suffered  all  the  pain  I  gave 
In  the  No,  so  firmly  spoken. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


26l 


I  marvel  what  he  would  think  of  me, 
Who  called  it  a  cruel  sentence, 

If   he   knew  I  had  almost  learned  to- 
day 
What  it  is  to  feel  repentance. 

For  it  seems  like  a  strange  perversity, 
And  blind  beyond  excusing, 

To  lose  the  thing  we  could  have  kept, 
And  after,  mourn  the  losing. 

And  this,  the  prize  I  might  have  won, 
Was  worth  a  queen's  obtaining  ; 

And  one,  if  far  beyond  my  reach, 

I   had   sighed,   perchance,   for  gain- 
ing. 

And  I  know — ah!  no  one  knows  so 

well, 

Though  my  heart  is  far  from  break- 
ing— 
'T  was  a  loving  heart,  and  an  honest 

hand, 
I  might  have  had  for  the  taking. 

And  yet,  though  never  one  beside 
Has  place  in  my  thought  above  him, 

I  only  like  him  when  he  is  by, 
'T  is  when  he  is  gone  I  love  him. 

Sadly  of  absence  poets  sing, 

And  timid  lovers  fear  it ; 
But  an  idol  has  been  worshiped  less 

Sometimes  when  we  came  too  near 
it. 

And  for  him  my  fancy  throws  to-day 
A  thousand  graces  o'er  him  ; 

For   he  seems   a  god  when   he  stands 

afar 
And  I  kneel  in  my  thought  before  him. 

But  if  he  were  here,  and  knelt  to  me 
With  a  lover's  fond  persistence, 

Would  the  halo  brighten  to  my  eyes 
That  crowns  him  now  in  the  distance  ? 

Could  I  change  the  words  I  have  said, 
and  say 

Till  one  of  us  two  shall  perish, 
Forsaking  others,  I  take  this  man 

Alone,  to  love  and  to  cherish  ? 

Alas  !  whatever  beside  to-day 

I  might  dream  like  a  fond  romancer, 

I  know  mv  heart  so  well  that  I  know 
I  should  give  him  the  self -same  an- 
swer. 


SONG. 

LAUGH  out,  O  stream,  from  your  bed  of 
green, 

Where  you  lie  in  the  sun's  embrace  ; 
And  talk  to  the  reeds  that  o'er  you  lean 

W  touch  your  dimpled  face  ; 
But  let  your  talk  be  sweet  as  it  will, 

And  your  laughter  be  as  gay, 
You  cannot  laugh  as  I  laugh  in  my  heart, 

For  my  lover  will  come  to-day  ! 

Sing  sweet,  little  bird,  sing  out  to  your 
mate 

That  hides  in  the  leafy  grove  ; 
Sing  clear  and  tell  him  for  him  you  wait, 

And  tell  him  of  all  your  love  ; 
But  though  you  sing  till  you  shake  the 
buds 

And  the  tender  leaves  of  May, 
My  spirit  thrills  with  a  sweeter  song, 

For  my  lover  must  come  to-day  ! 

Come  up,  O  winds,  come  up  from  the 
south 

With  eager  hurrying  feet, 
And  kiss  your  red  rose  on  her  mouth 

In  the  bower  where  she  blushes  sweet; 
But  you  cannot  kiss  your  darling  flow- 
er, 

Though  you  clasp  her  as  you  may, 
As  I  kiss  in  my  thought  the  lover  dear 

I  shall  hold  in  my  arms  to-day  ! 


SOMEBODY'S  LOVERS. 

Too  meek  by  half  was  he  who  came 

A-wooing  me  one  morn, 
For  he  thought  so  little  of  himself 

I  learned  to  share  his  scorn. 

At  night  I  had  a  suitor,  vain 

As  the  vainest  in  the  land  ; 
Almost  he  seemed  to  condescend 

In  the  offer  of  his  hand. 

In  one  who  pressed  his  suit  I  missed 

Courage  and  manly  pride ; 
And  how  could  I  think  of  such  a  one 

As  a  leader  and  a  guide  ? 

And  then  there  came  a  worshiper 
With  such  undoubting  trust, 

That  when  he  knelt  he  seemed  not  worth 
Upraising  from  the  dust. 


262 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


The  next  was  never  in  the  wrong, 
Was  not  too  smooth  nor  rough  ; 

So  faultless  and  so  good  was  he, 
That  that  was  fault  enough. 

But  one,  the  last  of  all  who  came, 
I  know  not  how  to  paint ;  ^ 

No  angel  do  I  seem  to  him  — 
He  scarcely  calls  me  saint ! 

He  hath  such  sins  and  weaknesses 

As  mortal  man  befall  ; 
He  hath  a  thousand  faults,  and  yet 

I  love  him  with  them  all ! 

He  never  asked  me  yea  nor  nay, 

Nor  knelt  to  me  one  hour ; 
But  he  took  my  heart,  and  holds  my 
heart 

With  a  lover's  tender  power. 

And  I  bow,  as  needs  I  must,  and  say, 

In  proud  humility, 

Love's  might  is  right,  and  I  yield  at 
last 

To  manhood's  royalty ! 


ON  THE  RIVER. 

DARLING,  while  the  tender  moon 
Of  this  soft,  delicious  June, 

Watches  o'er  thee  like  a  lover  ; 
While  we  journey  to  the  sea, 
Silently, 

Let  me  tell  my  story  over. 

Ah  !  how  clear  before  my  sight 
Rises  up  that  summer  night, 

When  I  told  thee  first  my  passion; 
And  the  little  crimson  streak, 
In  thy  cheek, 

Showed  thy  love  in  comeliest  fashion. 

When  I  pleaded  for  reply, 
Silent  lip  and  downcast  eye, 

Turning  from  me  both  dissembled ; 
But  the  lily  hand  that  shone 
In  mine  own, 

Like  a  lily  softly  trembled. 

And  the  pretty  words  that  passed 

O'er  thy  coral  lips  at  last, 
Still  as  precious  pearls  I  treasure  ; 

And  the  payment  lovers  give, 

While  I  live, 
Shall  be  given  thee  without  measure. 


For  I  may  not  offer  thee 

Such  poor  words  as  mine  must  be, 
I  perforce  must  speak  my  blisses 

In  the  language  of  mine  eyes, 

Mixed  with  sighs, 
And  the  tender  speech  of  kisses. 

Heart,  encompassed  in  my  heart ! 

Hopeful,  happy  as  thou  art, 
Will  I  keep  and  ne'er  forsake  thee  ; 

Yea,  my  love  shall  hold  thee  fast, 

Till  the  last, 
So  that  heaven  alone  can  take  thee  ! 

And  if  sorrow  ever  spread 
Threatening  showers  o'er  thy  head, 

All  about  thee  will  I  gather, 
Whatsoever  things  are  bright, 
That  thy  sight 

May  be  tempted  earthward  rather ; 

From  thy  pathway,  for  love's  sake, 
Carefully  my  hand  will  take, 

Every  thorn  anear  it  growing  ; 
And  my  lamb  within  my  arms, 
Safe  from  harms, 

Will  I  shield  when  winds  are  blowing. 

Fairest  woman,  holiest  saint ! 

If  my  words  of  praise  could  paint 
Thee,  as  liberal  Nature  made  thee  ; 

All  who  saw  my  picture,  sweet, 

Would  repeat, 
"  He  who  painted,  loved  the  lady  !  " 

Has  the  wide  world  anything 
Thou  wilt  take  or  I  may  bring, 

I  will  treat  no  work  disdainful ; 
Set  me  some  true  lover's  task, 
Dearest,  ask 

Any  service,  sweet  or  painful. 

If  it  please  thee,  over  me, 
Practice  petty  tyranny, 
Punish  me  as  for  misdoing, 

Let  me  make  of  penitence 

Sad  pretense, 
At  thy  feet  for  pardon  suing. 

Darling,  all  our  life  must  be, 
Thou  with  me,  and  I  with  thee, 

Calm  as  this  delicious  weather; 
We  will  keep  our  honeymoon 
Every  June, 

Voyaging  through  life  together. 

You  and  me,  we  used  to  say, 
Wre  were  two  but  yesterday  ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


263 


We  were  as  the  sea  and  river; 

Now  our  lives  have  all  the  sweetness, 

And  completeness, 
Of  two  souls  made  one  forever  ! 


INCONSTANCY. 

ALL  in  a  dreary  April  day, 

When    the    light     of    my    sky    was 

changed  to  gloom, 

My  first  love  drooped  and  faded  away, 
While   I   sorrowed   over   its  waning 
bloom. 

And  I  buried  it,  saying  bitterly, 

As  I  watered  its  grave  with  a  rain  of 

tears  ; 

"  No  flower  of  love  will  bloom  for  me 
Save    this    one,   dead    in    my  early 
years  !  " 

But  the  May-time  pushes  the  April  out, 
And  the  summer  of  life  succeeds  the 

May; 
And  the  heaviest   clouds  of  grief  and 

doubt, 
In  weeping,  weep  themselves  away. 

And  ere  I  had  ceased  to  mourn  above 
My  cherished  flower's  untimely  tomb, 

Right  out  of  the  grave  of  that  buried  love 
There    sprang    another     and    fairer 
bloom. 

And  I  cried,  "  Sleep  softly,  my  perished 

rose, 

My  pretty  bud  of  an  April  hour  ; 
While  I  live  in  the  beauty  that  burns 

and  glows, 

In  the  summer  heart  of  my  passion 
flower  !  " 


LOVE   CANNOT  DIE. 

ONCE,  when  my  youth  was  in  its  flower, 
I  lived  in  an  enchanted  bower, 

Unvexed  with  fear  or  care, 
With  one  who  made  my  world  so  bright, 
I  thought  no  darkness  and  no  blight 

Could  ever  enter  there. 

I  have  no  friend  like  that  to-day, 
The  very  bower  has  passed  away ; 
It  was  not  what  it  seemed; 


I  know  in  all  the  world  of  men 
There  is  not  and  there  ne'er  has  been, 
That  one  of  whom  I  dreamed  ! 

And  one  I  loved  and  called  my  friend, 
And  hoped  to  walk  with  to  the  end, 

And  on  the  better  shore, 
Has  changed  so  cruelly  that  she, 
Out  of  my  years  that  are  to  be, 

Is  lost  for  evermore. 

With  his  dear  eyes  in  death  shut  fast, 
Sleeps  one  who  loved  me  to  the  last, 

Beneath  the  church-yard  stone  ; 
Yet  hath  his  spirit  always  been 
Near  me  to  cheer  the  world  wherein 

I  seem  to  walk  alone. 

There  was  a  little  golden  head 
A  few  brief  seasons  pillowed 

Softly  my  own  beside  ; 
That  pillow  long  has  been  unprest  — 
That  child  yet  sleeps  upon  my  breast 

As  though  she  had  not  died, 

And  seeing  that  I  always  hold 

Mine  earthly  loves,  in  love's  sweet  fold, 

I  thus  have  learned  to  know, 
That  He,  whose  tenderness  divine 
Surpasses  every  thought  of  mine, 

Will  never  let  me  go. 

Yea,  thou,  whose  love,  so  strong,   so 

great, 
Nor  life  nor  death  can  separate 

From  souls  within  thy  care  ; 
I  know  that  though  in  heaven  I  dwell, 
Or  go  to  make  my  bed  in  hell, 

Thou  still  art  with  me  there  ! 


HELPLESS. 

You  never  said  a  word  to  me 
That  was  cruel,  under  the  sun  ; 

It  is  n't  the  things  you  do,  darling, 
But  the  things  you  leave  undone. 

If  you  could  but  know  a  wish  or  want 
You  would  grant  it  joyfully  ; 

Ah  !  that  is  the  worst  of  all,  darling, 
That  you  cannot 'know  nor  see. 

For  favors  free  alone  are  sweet, 
Not  those  that  we  must  seek  ; 

If  you  loved  as  I  love  you,  darling, 
I  would  not  need  to  speak. 


264 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


But  to-day  I  am  helpless  as  a  child 

That  must  be  led  along  ; 
Then  put  your  hand  in  mine,  darling, 

And  make  me  brave  and  strong. 

There 's  a  heavy  care  upon  my  mind, 

A  trouble  on  my  brain  ; 
Now  gently  stroke  my  hair,  darling, 

And  take  away  the  pain. 

I  feel  a  weight  within  my  breast, 

As  if  all  had  gone  amiss  ; 
Oh,  kiss  me  with  your  lips,  darling, 

And  fill  my  heart  with  bliss. 

Enough  !  no  deeper  joy  than  this 

For  souls  below  is  given  ; 
Now  take  me  in  your  arms,  darling, 

And  lift  me  up  to  heaven  ! 


MY  HELPER. 

WE  stood,  my  soul  and  I, 
In  fearful  jeopardy, 

The  while  the  fire  and  tempest  passed 
us  by. 

For  I  was  pushed  by  fate 
Into  that  fearful  strait, 
Where  there  was  nothing  but  to  stand 
and  wait. 

I  had  no  company  — 
The  world  was  dark  to  me  : 
Whence  any  light  might  come  I  could 
not  see. 

I  lacked  each  common  good, 
Nor  raiment  had  nor  food  ; 
The   earth   seemed   slipping  from    me 
where  I  stood. 

One  who  had  wealth  essayed ; 
Gold  in  my  hand  he  laid  ; 
He  proffered  all  his  treasures  for  my  aid. 

Yet  from  his  gilded  roof, 
I  needs  must  stand  aloof  ; 
I  could  not  put   his   kindness   to   the 
proof. 

One  who  had  wisdom,  said, 
"  By  me  be  taught  and  led, 
And    thou,    thyself,    mayst    win    both 
home  and  bread. 


Too  strong  and  wise  was  he, 
Too  tar  away  from  me, 
To  help  me  in  my  great  necessity. 

Came  one,  with  modest  guise, 
With  tender,  downcast  eyes, 
With  voice  as  sweet  as  mothers'   lul- 
labies. 

Softly  his  words  did  fall, 

"  My  riches  are  so  small 

I  cannot  give  thee  anything  at  all. 

"  I  cannot  guide  thy  way, 
As  wiser  mortals  may  ; 
But  all  my  true  heart  at  thy  feet  I  lay." 

No  more  earth  seemed  to  move, 
The  skies  grew  bright  above  ; 
He  gave  me  everything,  who  gave  me 
love  ! 

I  had  sweet  company, 
Food,  raiment,  luxury  ; 
Had  all  the  world  —  had  heaven  come 
down  to  me  ! 

And  now  such  peace  is  mine, 
Surely  a  light  divine 
Must  make  my  face  with  holiest  joy  to 
shine. 

So  that  my  heart's  delight 
Is  published  in  men's  sight  ; 
And  night  and  day  I  cry,  and  day  and 
night ; 

O  soul,  no  more  alone, 
Such  bliss  as  thine  is  known 
But  to  the  angels  nearest  love's  white 
throne  ! 


FAITHFUL. 

FAINTER  and  fainter  may  fall  on  my 

ear 
The  voice  that  is  Sweeeter  than  music  to 

hear  ; 

More  and  more  eagerly  then  will  I  list, 
That   never  a  word   or   an   accent   be 

missed. 

Slower  and  slower  the  footstep    may 

grow, 
Whose  fall   is    the  pleasantest  sound 

that  I  know ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


265 


Quicker  and  quicker  my  glad  heart  shall 

learn 
To   catch   its  faint   echo   and  bless  its 

return. 

Whiter  and  whiter  may  turn  with  each 

day 
The  locks  that  so  sadly  are  changing  to 

gray  ; 
Dearer  and  dearer  shall  these  seem  to 

me, 
The  fewer  and  whiter  and  thinner  they 

be. 

Weaker  and  weaker  may  be   the  light 

clasp 
Of  the  hand  that  I  hold  so  secure  in 

my  grasp  ; 
Stronger  and  stronger  my  own   to  the 

last 
Will  cling  to  it,  holding  it  tenderly  fast. 

Darker   and    darker   above    thee    may 

spread 
The  clouds  of   a  fate  that  is  hopeless 

and  dread  ; 
Brighter  and   brighter  the   sun  of   my 

love 
Will  shine,  all  the  shadows  and  mists 

to  remove. 

Envy  and  malice  thy  life  may  assail, 
Favor  and  fortune  and  friendship  may 

fail  ; 
But  perfect  and  sure,  and  undying  shall 

be 
The  trust  of  this  heart  that  is  centred  in 

thee  ! 


THE   LAST   ACT. 

A  WRETCHED  farce  is  our  life  at  best, 
A  weariness  under  the  sun  ; 

I  am  sick  of  the  part  I  have  to  play, 
And  I  would  that  it  were  done. 

I  would  that  all  the  smiles  and  sighs 
Of  its  mimic  scenes  could  end  ; 

That  we  could  see  the  curtain  fall 
On  the  last  poor  act,  my  friend  ! 

Thin,  faded  hair,  a  beard  of  snow, 
A  thoughtful,  furrowed  brow  ; 

And  this  is  all  the  world  can  see 
When  it  looks  upon  you  now. 


And  I,  it  almost  makes  me  smile, 

' T  is  counterfeit  so  true, 
To  see  how  Time  hath  got  me  up 

For  the  part  I  have  to  do. 

'T  is    strange    that    we    can    keep    in 
mind, 

Through  all  this  tedious  play, 
The  way  we  needs  must  act  and  look, 

And  the  words  that  we  should  say. 

And  I  marvel  if  the  young  and  gay 

Believe  us  sad  and  old  ; 
If    they    think    our    pulses   slow   and 
calm 

And  our  feelings  dead  and  cold  ! 

But  I  cannot  hide  myself  from  you, 
Be  the  semblance  e'er  so  good  ; 

For  under  it  all  and  through  it  all 
You  would  know  the  womanhood. 

And  you  cannot  make  me  doubt  your 

truth, 

For  all  your  strange  disguise  ; 
For   the   soul   is   drawn   through   your 

tender  voice, 

And   the   heart  through    the  loving 
eyes. 

And  I  see,  where  other  eyes  behold 
Thin,  whitened  locks  fall  down, 

A  god-like  head,  that  proudly  wears 
Its  curls  like  a  royal  crown. 

And  I  see  the  smile  of  the  tender  lip, 
'Neath  its  manly  fringe  of  jet, 

That   won    my   heart,  when    I    had   a 

heart, 
And  that  holds  and  keeps  it  yet. 

Ah  !  how  shall   we   act   this   wretched 

part 

Till  its  weary,  weary  close  ? 
For  our  souls  are  young,  we  are  lovers 

yet, 
For  all  our  shams  and  shows  ! 

Let  us  go  and  lay  our  masks  aside 
In  that  cool  and  green  retreat, 

That  is  sof  Jy  curtained  from  the  world 
By  the  daisies  fair  and  sweet. 

And  far  away  from  this  weary  life, 
In  the  light  of  Love's  white  throne, 

We  shall  see,  at  last,  as  we  are  seen, 
And  know  as  we  are  known  ! 


266 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHOEBE   GARY. 


TRUE   LOVE. 

I  THINK  true  love  is  never  blind, 
But  rather  brings  an  added  light ; 

An  inner  vision  quick  to  find 

The  beauties  hid  from  common  sight. 

No  soul  can  ever  clearly  see 

Another's  highest,  noblest  part ; 

Save  through  the  sweet  philosophy 
And  loving  wisdom  of  the  heart. 

Your  unanointed  eyes  shall  fall 

On  him  who  fills  my  world  with  light ; 

You  do  not  see  my  friend  at  all, 

You  see  what   hides   him  from  your 
sight. 

I  see  the  feet  that  fain  would  climb, 
You,  but  the  steps  that  turn  astray  : 

I  see  the  soul  the  unharmed,  sublime  ; 
You,  but  the  garment,  and  the  clay. 

You  see  a  mortal,  weak,  misled, 
Dwarfed  ever  by  the  earthly  clod  ; 

I  see  how  manhood,  perfected, 
May  reach  the  stature  of  a  god. 

Blinded  I  stood,  as  now  you  stand, 
Till  on  mine  eyes,  with  touches  sweet, 

Love,  the  deliverer,  laid  his  hand, 
And  lo  !  I  worship  at  his  feet ! 


COMPLAINT. 

"THOUGH  we  were  parted,  or  though 
he  had  died," 

She  said,  "  I  could  bear  the  worst, 
If  he  only  had  loved  me  at  the  last, 

As  he  loved  me  at  the  first. 

"  But  woe  is  me  !  "  said   the   hapless 
maid, 

"  That  ever  a  lover  came  ; 
Since  he  who  lit  in  my  heart  the  fire, 

Has  failed  to  tend  the  flame. 

"  Ah  !  why  did  he  pour  in  my  life's  poor 
cup 

A  nectar  so  divine, 
If  he  had  no  power  to  fill  it  up 

With  a  draught  as  pure  and  fine  ? 

u  Why  did  he  give  me  one  holiday, 
Then  send  me  back  to  toil  ? 


Why  did  he  set  a  lamp  in  my  house, 
And  leave  it  lacking  oil  ? 

"  Why  did  he  plant  the  rose  in  my 
cheeks 

When  he  knew  it  could  not  thrive  — 
That  the  dew  of  kisses,  only,  keeps 

The  true  blush-rose  alive  ? 

"  If  he  tired  so  soon  of  the  song  I  sung 
In  our  love's  delicious  June, 

Why  did  he  set  the  thoughts  of  my  heart 
All  to  one  blessed  tune  ? 

"  Oh,  if  he  were  either  true  or  false, 
My  torment  might  have  end  : 

He  hath  been,  for  a  lover,  too  unkind  ; 
Too  loving  for  a  friend ! 

"  And  there  is  not  a  soul  in  all  the  world 
So  wretched  as  mine  must  be, 

For  I  cannot  live  on  his  love,"  she  said, 
"  Nor  die  of  his  cruelty." 


DOVES'  EYES. 

THERE  are  eyes  that  look  through  us, 
With  the  power  to  undo  us, 
Eyes  of  the  lovingest,  tenderest  blue, 
Clear  as  the  heavens  and  as  trufhful  too  ; 
But  these  are  not  my  love's  eyes, 
For,  behold,  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 

There  are  eyes  half  defiant, 

Half  meek  and  compliant  ; 
Black  eyes,  with  a  wondrous,  witching 

charm 
To  bring  us  good  or  to  work  us  harm  ; 

Hut  these  are  not  my  love's  eyes, 

For,  behold  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 

There  are  eyes  to  our  feeling 

Forever  appealing ; 
Eyes  of  a  helpless,  pleading  brown, 
That  into  our  very  souls  look  down ; 

But  these  are  not  my  love's  eyes, 

For,  behold,  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 

Oh  eyes,  dearest,  sweetest, 
In  beauty  completest ; 
Whose  perfectness  cannot  be  told  in  a 

word,  — 
Clear  and  deep  as  the  eyes  of  a  soft, 

brooding  bird ; 

These,  these  are  my  love's  eyes, 
For,  behold,  he  hath  doves'  eyes  ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


267 


THE  HUNTER'S  WIFE. 

MY  head  is  sick  and  my  heart  is  faint, 

I  am  wearied  out  with  my  own  com- 
plaint. 
Answer  me,  come  to  me,  then  ; 

For,    lo  !    I   have    pleaded    by    every- 
thing 

My  brain  could  dream,  or  my  lips  could 
sing. 

I  have  called  you  lover,  and  called  you 

king, 
And  man  of  the  race  of  men  ! 

Come  to  me  glad,  and  I  will  be  glad ; 
But   if  you   are   weary,  or   if  you   are 

sad, 

I  will  be  patient  and  meek, 
Nor   word,  nor  smile  will    I   seem   to 

crave ; 
But  I  '11  sit  and  wait,  like  an  Eastern 

slave, 
Or   wife,  in   the    lodge    of  an   Indian 

brave, 
In  silence,  till  you  speak. 

Come,  for  the  power  of  life  and  death 
Hangs  for  me  on  the  lightest  breath 

Of  the  lips  that  I  believe  ; 
Only  pause  by  the  cooling  lake, 
Till  your  weary  mule  her  thirst  shall 

slake  ; 
'T  were  a  fearful  thing  if  a  heart  should 

break 
And  you  held  its  sweet  reprieve  ! 

Sleep  lightly  under  the  loving  moon  ; 
Rise   with   the   morning,  and   ride  till 

noon  ; 

Ride  till  the  stars  are  above  ! 
And    as    you    distance    the    mountain 

herds, 
And  shame  the  flight  of  the  summer 

birds, 

Say  softly  over  the  tenderest  words 
The  poets  have  sung  of  love. 

You  will   come  —  you  are  coming  —  a 

thousand  miles 
Away,  I  can  see  you  press  through  the 

aisles 

Of  the  forest,  cool  and  gray  ; 
And  my  lips  shall  be  dumb  till  our  lips 

have  met, 

For  never  skill  of  a  mortal  yet, 
To  mortal  words  such  music  set, 
As  beats  in  my  heart  to-day  ! 


LOVERS    AND    SWEETHEARTS. 

FAIR  youth,  too  timid  to  lift  your  eyes 
To  the  maiden  with  downcast  look, 
As  you  mingle  the  gold  and  brown  of 

your  curls 

Together  over  a  book ; 
A  fluttering   hope   that    she    dare    not 

name 

Her  trembling  bosom  heaves  ; 
And  your  heart  is  thrilled,  when  your 

fingers  meet, 
As  you  softly  turn  the  leaves. 

Perchance  you  two  will  walk  alone 

Next    year    at    some    sweet    day's 

close, 

And  your  talk  will  fall  to  a  tenderer 
tone, 

As  you  liken  her  cheek  to  a  rose  ; 
And  then  her  face  will  flush  and  glow, 

With  a  hopeful,  happy  red  ; 
Outblushing  all  the  flowers  that  grow 

Anear  in  the  garden-bed. 

If  you  plead  for  hope,  she  may  bashful 

drop 

Her  head  on  your  shoulder,  low  ; 
And  you  will  be  lovers  and  sweethearts 

then 

As  youths  and  maidens  go  : 
Lovers     and      sweethearts,     dreaming 

dreams, 

And  seeing  visions  that  please, 
With  never  a  thought  that  life  is  made 
Of  great  realities ; 

That  the  cords  of  love  must  be  strong 

as  death 

Which  hold  and  keep  a  heart, 
Not    daisy-chains,    that    snap    in    the 

breeze, 

Or  break  with  their  weight  apart ; 
For  the   pretty   colors  of   youth's  fair 

morn 

Fade  out  from  the  noonday  sky  ; 
And  blushing  loves,  in  the  roses  born, 
Alas  !  with  the  roses  die  ! 

But  the  love,  that  when  youth's  morn  is 

past, 

Still  sweet  and  true  survives, 
Is  the  faith  we  need  to  lean  upon 

In  the  crises  of  our  lives  : 
The  love  that  shines  in  the  eyes  grown 

dim, 
In  the  voice  that  trembles  speaks  ; 


268 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE    GARY. 


And  sees  the  roses,  that  a  year  ago 
Withered  and  died  in  our  cheeks  ; 

That  sheds  a  halo  round  us  still, 

Of  soft  immortal  light, 
When  we  change  youth's  golden  coro- 
nal 

For  a  crown  of  silver  white  : 
A  love  for  sickness  and  for  health, 

For  rapture  and  for  tears  ; 
That  will  live  for  us  and  bear  with  us 

Through  all  our  mortal  years. 

And  such  there  is ;    there  are   lovers 

here, 
On    the    brink   of    the     grave    that 

stand, 
Who  shall  cross   to  the  hilts  beyond, 

and  walk 

Forever  hand  in  hand  ! 
Pray,  youth  and  maid,  that  your  end  be 

theirs, 

Who  are  joined  no  more  to  part ; 
For    death    comes    not    to    the    living 

soul, 
Nor  age  to  the  loving  heart ! 


THE   ROSE. 

THE    sun,    who    smiles    wherever    he 

goes, 

Till  the  flowers  all  smile  again, 
Fell    in   love    one  day  with   a   bashful 

rose, 
That  had  been  a  bud  till  then. 

So  he  pushed  back  the  folds  of  the  soft 

green  hood 

That  covered  her  modest  grace, 
And   kissed  her  as  only  the  bold  sun 

could, 
Till  the  crimson  burned  in  her  face. 

But  woe  for  the  day  when  his  golden 

hair 

Tangled  her  heart  in  a  net ; 
A.nd  woe  for  the  night  of  her  dark  de- 
spair, 
When  her  cheek  with  tears  was  wet ! 

For  she  loved  him  as  only  a  young  rose 
could  : 

And  he  left  her  crushed  and  weak, 
Striving  in  vain  with  her  faded  hood 

To  cover  her  burning  cheek. 


ARCHIE. 

OH   to  be   back   in   the   cool   summer 

shadow 
Of    that   old   maple-tree   down   in   the 

meadow  ; 
Watching  the  smiles  that  grew  dearer 

and  dearer, 
Listening  to  lips  that  drew  nearer  and 

nearer ; 
Oh  to  be   back   in  the  crimson-topped 

clover, 
Sitting  again  with  my  Archie,  my  lover  ! 

Oh  for  the  time  when  I  felt  his  caresses 
Smoothing  away  from  my  forehead  the 

tresses ; 
When  up  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek 

went  the  blushes, 
As  he  said  that  my  voice  was  as  sweet 

as  the  thrush's ; 
As  he  told  me  my  eyes  were  bewitch- 

ingly  jetty, 
And   I   answered,  't  was  only  my  love 

made  them  pretty ! 

Talk  not  of  maiden  reserve  or  of  duty 
Or  hide  from  my  vision  such  visions  of 

beauty  ; 
Pulses    above    may    beat    calmly    and 

even, — 
We  have  been  fashioned  for  earth,  and 

not  heaven  : 

Angels  are  perfect,  I  am  but  a  woman  ; 
Saints   may   be   passionless,   Archie    is 

human. 

Say  not  that  heaven  hath  tenderer 
blisses 

To  her  on  whose  brow  drops  the  soft 
rain  of  kisses ; 

Preach  not  the  promise  of  priests  or 
evangels,  — 

Loved-crowned,  who  asks  for  the  crown 
of  the  angels  ? 

Yea,  all  that  the  wall  of  pure  jasper  in- 
closes, 

Takes  not  the  sweetness  from  sweet 
bridal  roses  ! 

Tell  me,  that  when  all  this  life  shall  be 
over, 

I  shall  still  love  him,  and  he  be  my  lover; 

That  mid  flowers  more  fragrant  than 
clover  or  heather 

My  Archie  and  I  shall  be  always  to- 
gether, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


269 


Loving  eternally,  met  ne'er  to  sever, 
Then  you  may  tell  me  of  heaven  forever. 


A  DAY  DREAM. 

IF  fancy  do  not  all  deceive, 

If  dreams  have  any  truth, 
Thy  love  must  summon  back  to  me 

The  glories  of  my  youth  ; 
F6"r  if  but  hope  unto  my  thought 

Such  transformation  brings, 
May  not  fruition  have  the  power 

To  change  all  outward  things  ! 

Come,  then,  and  look  into  mine  eyes 

Till  faith  hath  left  no  doubt ; 
So  shalt  thou  set  in  them  a  light 

That  never  can  go  out ; 
Or  lay  thy  hand  upon  my  hair, 

And  keep  it  black  as  night ; 
The  tresses  that  had  felt  that  touch 

Would  shame  to  turn  to  white. 

To  me  it  were  no  miracle, 

If,  when  I  hear  thee  speak, 
Lilies  around  my  neck  should  bloom 

And  roses  in  my  cheek  ; 
Or  if  the  joy  of  thy  caress, 

The  wonder  of  thy  smiles, 
Smoothed  all  my  forehead  out  again 

As  perfect  as  a  child's. 

My  lip  is  trembling  with  such  bliss 

As  mortal  never  heard  ; 
My  heart,  exulting  to  itself, 

Keeps  singing  like  a  bird  ; 
And  while  about  my  tasks  I  go 

Quietly  all  the  day, 
I  could  laugh  out,  as  children  laugh, 

Upon  the  hills  at  play. 

0  thou,  whom  fancy  brings  to  me 
With  morning's  earliest  beams, 

Who  walkest  with  me  down  the  night 
The  paradise  of  dreams  ; 

1  charge  thee,  by  the  power  of  love, 
To  answer  to  love's  call ; 

Wake  me  to  perfect  happiness, 
Or  wake  me  not  at  all ! 


THE   PRIZE. 

HOPE  wafts  my  bark,  and  round  my  way 
Her  pleasant  sunshine  lies  ; 


For  I  sail  with  a  royal  argosy 
To  win  a  royal  prize. 

A  maiden  sits  in  her  loveliness 
On  the  shore  of  a  distant  stream, 

And  over  the  waters  at  her  feet 
The  lilies  float,  and  dream. 

She  reaches  down,  and  draws  them  in, 
With  a  hand  that  hath  no  stain  ; 

And  that  lily  of  all  the  lilies,  her  hand, 
Is  the  prize  I  go  to  gain. 

Her  hair  in  a  yellow  flood  falls  down 
From  her  forehead  low  and  white  ; 

I  would  bathe  in  its  billowy  gold,  and 

dream, 
In  its  sea  of  soft  delight. 

Her  cheek  is  as  fair  as  a  tender  flower, 
When  its  blushing  leaves  dispart ; 

Oh,  my  rose  of  the  world,  my  regal  rose, 
I  must  wear  you  on  my  heart ! 

I  must  kiss  your  lips,  so  sweetly  closed 
O'er  their  pearly  treasures  fair  ; 

Or  strike  on  their  coral  reef,  and  sink 
In  the  waves  of  my  dark  despair  ! 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 

"  LOVE  thee  ?  "     Thou  canst  not  ask  of 
me 

So  freely  as  I  fain  would  give  ; 
'T  is  woman's  great  necessity 

To  love  so  long  as  she  shall  live  ; 
Therefore,  if  thou  dost  lovely  prove, 
I  cannot  choose  but  give  thee  love  ! 

"  Honor  thee  ? "     By  her  reverence 
The  truest  woman  best  is  known  ; 

She  needs  must  honor  where  she  finds 
A  nature  loftier  than  her  own  ; 

I  shall  not  turn  from  thee  away, 

Unless  I  find  my  idol  clay  ! 

"  Obey  ? "     Doth  not  the  stronger  will 
The  weaker  govern  and  restrain  ? 

Most  sweet  obedience  woman  yields 
Where     wisdom,     power,    manhood 
reign. 

I  '11  give  thee,  if  thou  canst  control, 

The  meek  submission  of  my  soul  ! 

Henceforward  all  my  life  shall  be 
Moulded  and  fashioned  by  thine  own  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


If  wisdom,  power,  and  constancy 

In  all  thy  words  and  deeds  are  shown  ; 
Whether  my  vow  be  yea  or  nay, 
I  ''11  "  love,  and  honor,  and  obey." 


IN    ABSENCE. 

WATCH  her  kindly,  stars  : 
From  the  sweet  protecting  skies 
Follow  her  with  tender  eyes, 
Look  so  lovingly  that  she 
Cannot  choose  but  think  of  me  : 

Watch  her  kindly,  stars  ! 

Soothe  her  sweetly,  night : 
On  her  eyes,  o'erwearied,  press 
The  tired  lids  with  light  caress  ; 
Let  that  shadowy  hand  of  thine 
Ever  in  her  dreams  seem  mine  : 

Soothe  her  sweetly,  night ! 

Wake  her  gently,  morn  : 
Let  the  notes  of  early  birds 
Seem  like  love's  melodious  words  ; 
Every  pleasant  sound  my  dear, 
When    she    stirs    from   sleep,    should 
hear  : 

Wake  her  gently,  morn  ! 

Kiss  her  softly,  winds  : 
Softly,  that  she  may  not  miss 
Any  sweet,  accustomed  bliss  ; 
On  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  face, 
Till  I  come  to  take  your  place, 

Kiss  and  kiss  her,  winds  ! 


ENCHANTMENT. 

HER  cup  of  life  with  joy  is  full, 
And  her  heart  is  thrilling  so 

That  the  beaker  shakes  in  her  trembling 

hand, 
Till  its  sweet  drops  overflow. 

All  day  she  walks  as  in  a  trance  ; 

And  the  thought  she  does  not  speak, 
But  tries  to  hide  from  the  world  away, 

Burns  out  in  her  tell-tale  cheek. 

And  often  from  her  dreams  of  night 
She  wakes  to  consciousness, 

As  the  golden  thread  of  her  slumber 

breaks 
With  the  burden  of  its  bliss. 


She  is  almost  troubled  with  the  wealth 

Of  a  joy  so  great  and  good, 
That  she  may  not  keep  it  to  herself, 

Nor  tell  it  if  she  would. 

'T  is  strange  that  this  should  come  to 
one 

Who,  all  her  life  before, 
Content  in  her  quiet  household  ways, 

Has  asked  for  nothing  more. 

And   stranger,   that   he,   in  whom  the 

power, 

The  wonderful  magic  lay, 
That  has  changed  her  world  to  a  para- 
dise, 
Was  a  man  but  yesterday  ! 


WOOED  AND  WON. 

THE   maiden    has    listened    to  loving 

words, 

She  has  seen  a  heart  like  a  flower  un- 
close; 

And  yet  she  would  almost  hide  its  truth, 
And  shut  the  leaves  of  the  blushing 
rose. 

For  the  spell  of  enchantment  is  broken 

now, 

And  all  the  future  is  seen  so  clear, 
That  she  longs  for  the  very  longing  gone, 
For  the  restless  pleasure  of  hope  and 
fear. 

She  stands  so  close  to  her  painting  now 
That    its    smallest    failings    are    re- 
vealed, — 
Ah,  that  beautiful  picture,  that  looked 

so  sweet, 
By  the  misty  distance  half  concealed  ! 

"Alas,"  she  says,  "can  it  then  be  true 
That  all  is  vanity,  as  they  preach, — 
That  the  good  is  in  striving  after   the 

good, 

And  the  best  is  the  thing  we  never 
reach  ? 

"  Are  not  the  sweetest   words   we  can 

speak  : 
'  It  is  mine,  and  I  hold  my  treasure 

fast  ? ' 
And  the  saddest  wrung  from  the  human 

heart  : 

'  It  might  have  been,  but  the  time  is 
past  ? ' 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


2/1 


"  i  do  not  know,  and  I  will  not  say, 
But  yet  of  a  truth  it  seems  to  me, 
I   would    give   my   certain    knowledge 

back 

For  my  hope,  with  its  sweet  uncer- 
tainty ! " 


LOVE'S  RECOMPENSE. 

HER  heart   was   light  as  human  heart 

can  be, 
When  blushingly  she  listened  to  the 

praise 
Of  him  who  talked  of  love  in  those 

sweet  days 
When  first  she  kept  a  lover's  company. 

That  was  hope's  spring-time;  now  its 

flowers  are  dead, 
And  she,  grown  tired  of  life  before  its 

close, 
Weaves    melancholy   stories    out   of 

woes, 

Across  whose  dismal  threads  her  heart 
has  bled. 

Yet  even  for  such  we   need  not  quite 

despair 
Since  from  our  wrong  God  can  bring 

forth  his  right  ; 
And  He,  though  all  are  precious  in 

his  sight, 

Doth  give  the  uncared-for  his  peculiar 
care. 

So,  in  the  good  life  that  shall  follow  this, 
He,  being  love,  may  make  her  love 

to  be 

One  golden   thread,   spun   out   eter- 
nally, 

Through  her  white   fingers,   trembling 
with  their  bliss. 


JEALOUSY. 

I  LOVE  my  love  so  well,  I  would 
There  were  no  eyes  but  mine  that  could 
See  my  sweet  piece  of  womanhood, 
And  marvel  of  delight. 

I  dread  that  even  the  sun  should  rise  ; 
That  bold,  bright  rover  of  the  skies, 
Who  dares  to  touch  her  closed  eyes, 
And  put  her  dreams  to  flight. 


No  maid  could  be  more  kind  to  me, 
No  truer  maiden  lives  than  she, 
But  yet  I  die  of  jealousy, 

A  thousand  deaths  in  one. 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  stop, 

With  her  soft  hand  a  flower  to  crop  ; 

I  envy  even  the  clover-top 

Her  dear  foot  treads  upon. 

How  cruel  in  my  sight  to  bless 
Even  her  bird  with  the  caress 
Of  fingers  that  I  dare  not  press, 
Those  lady  fingers,  white  ; 

That  nestle  oft  in  that  dear  place 
Between  her  pillow  and  her  face, 
And,  never  asking  leave  or  grace, 
Caress  her  cheek  at  night ! 

'T  is  torture  more  than  I  can  bear 
To  see  the  wanton  summer  air 
Lift  the  bright  tresses  of  her  hair, 
And  careless  let  them  fall. 

The    wind    that    through    the    roses 

slips, 

And  every  sparkling  dew-drop  sips, 
Without  rebuke  may  kiss  her  lips, 
The  sweetest  rose  of  all. 

I  envy  on  her  neck  of  snow, 
The  white  pearls  hanging  in  a  row, 
The  opals  on  her  heart  that  glow 
Flushed  with  a  tender  red. 

I  would  not,  in  her  chamber  fair, 
The    curious    stars    should    see    her, 

where 

I,  even  in  thought,  may  scarcely  dare 
For  reverence  to  tread. 

O  maiden,  hear  and  answer  me 
In  kindness  or  in  cruelty  ; 
Tell  me  to  live  or  let  me  die, 
I  cry,  and  cry  again  ! 

Give  me  to  touch  one  golden  tress, 
Give  me  thy  white  hand  to  caress, 
Give  me  thy  red,  red  lips  to  press, 
And  ease  my  jealous  pain  ! 


SONG. 

I  SEE  him  part  the  careless  throng, 
I  catch  his  eager  eye  ; 


272 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


He  hurries  towards  me  where  I  wait ; 
Beat  high,  my  heart,  beat  high  ! 

I  feel  the  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

And  all  my  pulses  thrill  ;• 
He  sees  me,  Basses  careless  by ;  — 

Be  still,  my  heart,  be  still  ! 

He  takes  another  hand  than  mine, 

It  trembles  for  his  sake  ; 
I  see  his  joy,  I  feel  my  doom  ;  — 

Break,  oh  my  heart-strings,  break 


I  CANNOT  TELL. 

ONCE,  being  charmed  by  thy  smile, 
And  listening  to  thy  praises,  such 

As  women,  hearing  all  the  while, 

I  think  could  never  hear  too  much,  — 

I  had  a  pleasing  fantasy 

Of  souls  that  meet,  and  meeting  blend, 
And  hearing  that  same  dream  from 
thee, 

I  said  1  loved  thee,  O  my  friend  ! 

That  was  the  flood-tide  of  my  youth, 
And  now  its  calm  waves  backward 
flow ; 

I  cannot  tell  if  it  were  truth, 
If  what  I  feel  be  love,  or  no. 

My  days  and  nights  pass  pleasantly, 
Serenely  on  my  seasons  glide, 

And  though  I  think  and  dream  of  thee, 
I  dream  of  many  things  beside. 

Most  eagerly  thy  praise  is  sought, 
'T  is    sweet    to    meet,    and    sad    to 
'  part ; 

But  all  my  best  and  deepest  thought 
Is  hidden  from  thee  in  my  heart. 

And  still  the  while  a  charm  or  spell 
Half  holds,  and  will  not  let  me  go  ; 

'T  is  strange,  and  yet  I  cannot  tell 
If  what  I  feel  be  love,  or  no  ! 


DEAD  LOVE. 

WE  are  face  to  face,  and  between  us 

here 

Is  the  love  we  thought  could  never 
die  ; 


Why  has  it  only  lived  a  year  ? 

Who  has  murdered  it  —  you  or  I  ? 

No  matter  who  —  the  deed  was  done 
By  one  or  both,  and  there  it  lies  ; 

The  smile  from  the  lip  forever  gone, 
And  darkness  over  the  beautiful  eyes 

Our  love   is   dead,   and    our    hope   is 

wrecked  ; 

So  what  does  it  profit  to  talk  and  rave, 
Whether  it  perished  by  my  neglect, 
Or    whether    your    cruelty    dug    its 
grave  ! 

Why  should  you  say  that  I  am  to  blame, 
Or  why  should  I  charge  the  sin  on 

you? 

Our  work  is  before  us  all  the  same, 
And  the  guilt  of  it  lies  between  us 
two. 

We  have  praised  our  love  for  its  beauty 

and  grace  ; 

Now  we  stand  here,  and  hardly  dare 
To  turn  the  face-cloth   back  from   the 

face, 

And   see   the   thing   that   is    hidden 
there. 

Yet  look  !  ah,  that  heart  has   beat  its 

last, 
And  the  beautiful  life  of  our  life  is 

o'er, 
And  when  we  have  buried  and  left  the 

past, 
We  two,  together,  can  walk  no  more. 

You    might    stretch    yourself    on    the 

dead,  and  weep, 
And  pray  as  the  Prophet  prayed,  in 

pain  ; 
But  not  like  him  could  you  break  the 

sleep, 
And  bring  the  soul  to  the  clay  again. 

Its  head  in  my  bosom  I  can  lay, 

And   shower  my  woe   there,  kiss  on 
kiss, 

But  there  never  was  resurrection-day 
In  the  world  for  a  love  so  dead  as  this. 

And,  since  we  cannot  lessen  the  sin 

By  mourning  over  the  deed  we  did, 
Let  us  draw  the  winding-sheet  up  to 

the  chin, 

Aye,  up  till  the  death-blind  eyes  are 
hid! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


273 


MY   FRIEND. 

0  MY  friend,  O  my  dearly  beloved  ! 

Do  you  feel,  do  you  know, 
How  the'  times  and  the  seasons  are  go- 
ing ; 

Are  they  weary  and  slow  ? 
Does  it  seem  to  you  long,  in  the  heav- 
ens, 

My  true,  tender  mate, 
Since  here  we  were  living  together, 

Where  dying  I  wait  ? 
'  T  is  three  years,  as  we  count  by  the 

spring-times, 

By  the  birth  of  the  flowers, 
What  are  years,  aye  !  eternities  even, 

To  love  such  as  ours  ? 
Side  by  side   are  we    still,   though   a 

shadow 

Between  us  doth  fall  ; 
We  are  parted,  and  yet  are  not  parted, 

Not  wholly,  and  all. 
For  still  you  are  round  and  about  me, 

Almost  in  my  reach, 
Though  I  miss   the  old  pleasant  com- 
munion 

Of  smile  and  of  speech. 
And  I  long  to  hear  what  you  are  see- 
ing, 

And  what  you  have  done/ 
Since   the    earth  faded   out  from  your 

vision, 

And  the  heavens  begun  ; 
Since  you   dropped   off   the  darkening 

fillet 

Of  clay  from  your  sight, 
And  opened  your  eyes  upon  glory 

Ineffably  bright  ! 

Though  little  my  life  has  accomplished, 
My  poor  hands  have  wrought  ; 

1  have  lived  what  has  seemed  to  be  ages 

In  feeling  and  thought, 
Since  the  time  when  our  path  grew  so 

narrow 

So  near  the  unknown, 
That    I    turned    back   from    following 

after, 

And  you  went  on  alone. 
For  we  speak  of  you  cheerfully,  always, 

As  journeying  on  ; 
Not  as  one  who  is  dead  do  we  name 

you ; 

We  say,  you  are  gone. 
For  how  could  we  speak  of  you  sadly, 
We,  who  watched  while  the  grace 
Of  eternity's  wonderful  beauty 
Grew  over  your  face  ! 
18 


Do  we  call  the  star  lost  that  is  hidden 

In  the  great  light  of  morn  ? 
Or  fashion  a  shroud  for  the  young  child 

In  the  day  it  is  born  ? 
Yet  behold  this  were  wise  to  their  folly, 

Who  mourn,  sore  distressed, 
When   a   soul,  that   is  summoned,  be- 
lieving, 

Enters  into  its  rest  ! 
And  for  you,  never  any  more  sweetly 

Went  to  rest,  true  and  deep, 
Since   the  first   of   our  Lord's   blessed 
martyrs, 

Having  prayed,  fell  asleep. 

What  to  you  was  the  change,  the  tran- 
sition, 

When  looking  before, 
You  felt  that  the  places  which  knew  you 

Should  know  you  no  more  ? 
Did  the  soul  rise  exultant,  ecstatic  ? 

Did  it  cry,  all  is  well  ? 
What  it  was  to  the  left  and  the  loving 

We  only  can  tell. 

'  T  was  as  if  one   took  from  us  sweet 
roses 

And  we. caught  their  last  breath  ; 
'  T  was  like  anything  beautiful  passing, — 

It  was  not  like  death  ! 
Like  the  flight  of  a  bird,  when  still  ris- 
ing, 

And  singing  aloud, 
He  goes  towards  the  summer-time,  over 

The  top  of  the  cloud. 
Now  seen  and  now  lost  in  the  distance, 

Borne  up  and  along, 
From  the   sight  of  the  eyes  that  are 
watching 

On  a  trail  of  sweet  song. 
As  sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  the  black- 
ness, 

A  great  shining  spark 
Flames  up  from  the  wick  of  a  candle, 

Blown  out  in  the  dark  ; 
So  while  we  were  watching  and  wait- 
ing, 

'  Twixt  hoping  and  doubt, 
The  light  of  the  soul  flashed  upon  us, 

When  we  thought  it  gone  out. 
And  we  scarce  could  believe  it  forever 

Withdrawn  from  our  sight, 
When  the  cold  lifeless  ashes  before  us 

Fell  silent  and  white  ! 
Ah  !  the  strength  of  your  love  was  so 
wondrous, 

So  great  was  its  sway, 
It  forced  back  the  spirit  half-parted 

Away  from  the  clay ; 


2/4 


THE  POEMS  OF  PPTCEBE   CARY. 


In  its  dread  of  the  great  separation, 
For  not  then  did  we  know, 

Love  can  never  be  left,  O  beloved, 
And  never  can  go  !  • 

As  when  from  some  beautiful  casement 

Illumined  at  night, 

While  we  steadfastly  gaze  on  its  bright- 
ness, 

A  hand  takes  the  light ; 
And   our    eyes    still   transfixed    by  the 

splendor 

Look  earnestly  on, 
At  the  place  where  we  lately  beheld  it, 

Even  when  it  has  gone  : 
So  we  looked  in  your  soul's  darkening 

windows, 

Those  luminous  eyes, 
Till  the  light  taken  from  them  fell  on 

us 

From  out  of  the  skies  ! 
Though   you   wore    something  earthly 

about  you 

That  once  we  called  you, 
A  robe  all  transparent,  and  brightened 

By  the  soul  shining  through  : 
Yet  when  you  had  dropped  it  in  going, 

'  T  was  but  yours  for  a  day, 
Safe  back  in  the  bosom  of  nature 

We  laid  it  away. 
Strewing  over  it  odorous  blossoms 

Their  perfume  to  shed, 
But  you    never   were    buried  beneath 

them, 

And  never  were  dead  ! 
What  we  brought  there  and  left  for  the 

darkness 
Forever  to  hide, 
Was  but  precious  because  you  had  worn 

it, 

And  put  it  aside. 

As  a  garment  might  be,  you  had  fash- 
ioned 

In  exquisite  taste ; 
A  book   which  your   touch   had   made 

sacred, 

A  flower  you  had  graced. 
For  all  that  was  yours  we  hold  pre- 
cious, 

We  keep  for  your  sake 
Every  relic  our  saint  on  her  journey 
Has  not  needed  to  take. 

Who  that  knew  what  your  spirit,  though 
fettered, 

Aspired  to,  adored, 
When  as  far  as  the  body  would  loose  it 

It  mounted  and  soared  ; 


What  soul  in  the  world  that  had  loved 

you, 

Or  known  you  aright, 
Would  look  for  you  down  in  the  dark- 
ness, 

Not  up  in  the  light  ? 
Why,  the  seed  in  the  ground  that  we 

planted, 

And  left  there  to  die, 
Being    quickened,   breaks    out    of    its 

prison, 

And  grows  towards  the  sky. 
The  small  fire  that  but  slowly  was  kin- 
dled, 

And  feebly  begun, 

Gaining  strength  as  it  burns,  flashes  up- 
ward, 

And  mounts  to  the  sun. 
And  could  such  a  soul,  free  for  ascend- 
ing, 

Could  that  luminous  spark, 
Blown  to  flame  by  the  breath  of  Jeho- 
vah, 

Go  out  in  the  dark  ? 
Doth  the  bird  stay  behind  when  the 

window 

Wide  open  is  set  ? 
Or,  freed  from  the  snare  of  the  fowler, 

Hasten  back  to  his  net  ? 
And  you  pined  in  the  flesh,  being  bur- 
dened 

By  its  great  weight  of  ills, 
As  a  slave,  who  has  tasted  wild  free- 
dom, 

Still  pines  for  the  hills. 
And  therefore  it  is  that  I  seek  you 

In  full,  open  day, 

Where  the  universe  stretches  the  far- 
thest 

From  darkness  away. 
And  think  of  you  always  as  rising 

And  spurning  the  gloom  ; 
All  the  width  of  infinity  keeping 
'Twixt  yourself  and  the  tomb  ! 

Sometimes  in  white  raiment  I  see  you, 

Treading  higher  and  higher, 
On  the  great  sea  of  glass,  ever  shining, 

And  mingled  with  fire. 
With  the  crown  and  the  harp  of  the 
victor, 

Exultant  you  stand  ; 
And  the  melody  drops,  as  if  jewels 

Dropped  off  from  your  hand. 
You  walk  in  that  beautiful  city, 

Adorned  as  a  bride, 
Whose  twelve  gates  of  pearl  are  forever 

Opened  freely  and  wide. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


2/5 


Whose  walls  upon  jasper  foundations 

Shall  firmly  endure ; 
Set  with  topaz,  and  beryl,  and  sapphire, 

And  amethyst  pure. 
You  are  where  there  is  not  any  dying, 

Any  pain,  any  cries  ; 
And  God's  hand  has  wiped  softly  for- 
ever, 

The  tears  from  your  eyes  : 
For  if  spirits  because  of  much  loving 

Come  nearest  the  throne, 
You  must  be  with  the  saints  and  the 
children 

Our  Lord  calls  his  own  ! 

Sometimes  you  are  led  in  green  pastures, 

The  sweetest  and  best ; 
Sometimes  as  a  lamb  in  the  bosom 

Of  Jesus  you  rest. 
Where  you  linger  the  spiciest  odors 

Of  paradise  blow, 
And  under  your  feet  drifts  of  blossoms 

Lie  soft  as  the  snow. 
If  you  follow  the  life-giving  river, 

Or  rest  on  its  bank, 

You  are  set  round  by  troops  of  white 
lilies, 

In  rank  after  rank. 
And  the  loveliest  things,  and  the  fairest, 

That  near  you  are  seen 
Seem  as  beautiful  handmaids,  who  wait 
on 

The  step  of  a  queen. 
For  always,  wherever  I  see  you, 

Below  or  above, 
I  think  all  the  good  which  surrounds  you 

Is  born  of  your  love. 
And  the  best  place  is  that  where  I  find 
you, 

The  best  thing  what  you  do  ; 
For  you  seem  to  have  fashioned  the 
heaven 

That  was  fashioned  for  you  ! 

But  as  from  his  essence  and  nature 

Our  God,  ever  blest, 
Cannot  do  anything  for  his  children 

But  that  which  is  best  ; 
And  till  He  hath  gathered  them  to  Him, 

In  the  heavens  above, 
Cannot  joy  over  them  as  one  singing, 

Nor  rest  in  his  love  ; 
So  you,  who  have  drawn  from  his  good- 
ness 

Your  portion  of  good, 
Must  help  where  your  hand  can  be  help- 
ful, 

Cannot  rest  if  you  would  ; 


For  you  could  not  be  happy  in  heaven, 

By  glory  shut  in, 

While  any  soul  whom  you  might  com- 
fort 

Should  suffer  and  sin. 
So  unto  the  heirs  of  salvation 

Have  you  freely  appeared ; 
And  the  earth  by  your  sweet  ministra- 
tion 

Is  brightened  and  cheered. 

I  am  sure  you  are  near  to  the  dying  ! 

For  often  we  mark 
A  smile  on  their  faces,  whose  brightness 

Lights  the  soul  through  the  dark  ; 
Sure,  that  you  have  for  man  in  his  direst 

Necessity  cared ; 
Preparing  him  then  for  whatever 

The  Lord  hath  prepared. 
So,  whenever  you  tenderly  loosen 

A  hand  from  our  grasp, 
We  feel,  you  can  hold  it  and  keep  it 

More  safe  in  your  clasp  ; 
And  that  he,  whose  dear  smile  for  a 
season 

Our  love  must  resign, 
Gains  the  infinite  comfort  and  sweetness 

Of  love  such  as  thine. 

Yea,  lost  mortal,  immortal  forever  ! 

And  saved  evermore  ! 
You  revisit  the  world  and  the  people, 

That  saw  you  of  yore. 
To  the  sorrowful  house,  to  the  death- 
room, 

The  prison  and  tomb, 
You  come,  as  on  wings  of  the  morning, 

To  scatter  the  gloom. 
Wherever  in  desolate  places 

Earth's  misery  abides ; 
Wherever  in  dark  habitations 

Her  cruelty  hides  ; 
If  there  the  good  seek*  for  the  wretched, 

And  lessen  their  woes, 
Surely  they  are  led  on  by  the  angels, 

And  you  are  of  those. 

In  the  holds  of  oppression,  where  cap- 
tives 

Sit  silent  and  weep, 
Your  face  as  the  face  of  a  seraph 

Has  shined  in  their  sleep  : 
And  your  white  hand   away  from  the 

dungeon 

His  free  step  has  led, 
When  the  slave  slipped  his  feet  from 

the  fetters, 
And  the  man  rose  instead  ; 


276 


THE  POEMS  OF  PPICEBE   GARY. 


Free,  at   least  in  his  dreams   and   his 
visions, 

That  one  to  behold, 
Who  walked  through  the  billows  of  fire 

With  the  faithful  of  old. 
And  what  are  the  walls  of  the  prison, 

The  rack  and  the  rod, 
To  him,  who  in  thought  and  in  spirit, 

Bows  only  to  God  ? 

If   his  doors  are   swung  back  by  the 
angels 

That  visit  his  sleep  — 
If  his  singing  ascend  at  the  midnight, 

Triumphant  and  deep  ; 
He  is  freer  than  they  who  have  bound 
him, 

For  his  spirit  may  rise 
And  as  far  as  infinity  reaches 

May  travel  the  skies  ! 

And  who  knows  but  the  wide  world  of 
slumber 

Is  real  as  it  seems  ? 
God  giveth  them  sleep,  his  beloved, 

And  in  sleep  giveth  dreams  ! 
And  happy  are  we  if  such  visions 

Our  souls  can  receive  ; 
If  we  sleep  at  the  gateway  of  heaven, 

And  wake  and  believe. 
If  angels  for  us  on  that  ladder 

Ascend  and  descend, 
Whose  top  reaches  into  the  heavens, 

With  God  at  the  end  ! 
If  our  souls  can  raise  up  for  a  Bethel 

E'en  the  great  stone  that  lies 
At  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre,  hiding 

Our  dead  from  our  eyes  ! 
But  alas  !  if  our  sight  be  withholden, 

If  faithless,  bereft, 

We  stoop  down,  looking  in  at  the  grave- 
clothes 

The  Risen  hath  left ; 
And  see  .not  the  face  of  the  angel 

All  dazzling  and  white, 
Who  points  us  away  from  the  darkness, 

And  up  to  the  light ! 
And  alas  !  when  our  Helper  is  passing, 

If  then  we  delay, 
To  cast  off  the  hindering  garments 

And  follow  his  w.ay  ! 

Yet  how  blindly  humanity  gropeth, 

While  clad 'in  this  veil  ; 
When  we  seek  for  the  truths  that  are 
nearest, 

How  often  we  fail. 
How  little  we  learn  of  each  other, 

How  little  we  teach  j 


How  poorly  the  wisest  interpret 

The  look  and  the  speech  ! 
Only  that  which   in   nearest   commun- 

ion 

We  give  and  receive, 
That  which  spirit  to  spirit  imparteth, 

Can  we  know  and  believe. 
Thus  I   know  that  you  live,  live  for- 
ever, 

Free  from  death,  free  from  harms  ; 
For  in  dreams  of  the  night,  and  at  noon- 
day 

Have  you  been  in  my  arms  ! 
And  I  know  that,  when  I  shall  be  like 

you, 

We  shall  meet  face  to  face  ; 
That  all  souls,  who  are  joined  by  affec- 
tion, 

Are  joined  by  God's  grace  ; 
And  that,  O  my  dearly  beloved, 

But  the  Father  above, 
Who  made  us  and  joined  us  can  pa 

us  ; 
And  He  cannot  for  love. 


DREAMS    AND    REALITIES. 

O  ROSAMOND,  thou  fair  and  good, 
And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood, 

Thou  royal  rose  of  June, 
Why  didst  thou  droop  before  thy  time  ? 
Why  wither  in  thy  first  sweet  prime  ? 

Why  didst  thou  die  so  soon  ? 

For  looking  backward  through  my  tears 
On  thee,  and  on  my  wasted  years; 

I  cannot  choose  but  say, 
If  thou  hadst  lived  to  be  my  guide, 
Or  thou  hadst  lived  and  I  had  died, 

'T  were  better  far  to-day. 

O  child  of  light,  O  golden  head  — 
Bright  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 

Upon  life's  lonely  way  — 
Why  didst  thou  vanish  from  our  sight  ? 
Could  they  not  spare  my  little  light 

From  heaven's  unclouded  day  ? 

O  friend  so  true,  O  friend  so  good  — 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood, 

That  gave  youth  all  its  charms  — 
What  had  I  done,  or  what  hadst  thou, 
That  through  this  lonesome  world  till 
now 

We  walk  with  empty  arms  ? 


POEMS  OF  LOVE   AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


27; 


And  yet,  had  this  poor  soul  been  fed 
With  all  it  loved  and  coveted  — 

Had  life  been  always  fair  — 
Would   these   dear   dreams   that   ne'er 

depart, 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 

Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 
The  friends  I  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 
Could  1  have  learned  that  clear,  calm 

faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bounds  of  death, 

And  almost  longs  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes,  I  think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be  ; 
That  what  we  plan  we  build  ; 


That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed, 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost, 
In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled  ; 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
Have  not  been  born  and  died  in  vain, 

Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb  ; 
But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
They  live,  embodied  evermore, 

And  wait  for  us  to  come. 

And  when  on  that  last  day  we  rise, 
Caught    up    between    the    earth    and 

skies, 

Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  "  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and 

death  ; 

Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith, 
Shall  be  thy  faith's  reward." 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


NEARER   HOME. 

ONE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before  ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 

Where  the  many  mansions  be  ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea  ; 

Nearer  the  bound/ of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown  ! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm  : 

Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink  ; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith  ! 


MANY   MANSIONS. 

HER  silver  lamp  half-filled  with  oil, 
Night  came,  to  still  the  day's  turmoil, 
And  bring  a  respite  from  its  toil. 

Gliding  about  with  noiseless  tread, 
Her  white  sheets  on  the   ground  she 

spread, 
That  wearied  men  might  go  to  bed. 


No  watch  was  there  for  me  to  keep, 
Yet  could  I  neither  rest  nor  sleep, 
A  recent  loss  had  struck  so  deep. 

I  felt  as  if  Omnipotence 

Had  given  us  no  full  recompense 

For  all  the  ills  of  time  and  sense. 

So  I  went,  wandering  silently, 
Where  a  great  river  sought  the  sea  ; 
And  fashioned  out  the  life  to  be. 

It  Was  not  drawn  from  book  or  creed, 
And  yet,  in  very  truth  and  deed, 
It  answered^  to  my  greatest  need. 

And  satisfied  myself,  I  thought, 

A  heaven  so  good  and  perfect  ought 

To  give  to  each  what  all  have  sought. 

Near  where  I  slowly  chanced  to  stray, 
A  youth,  and  old  man,  worn  and  gray, 
Down  through  the  silence  took  their  way , 

And  the  night  brought  within  my  reach, 
As  each  made  answer  unto  each, 
Some  portion  of  their  earnest  speech. 

The  patriarch  said  :  "  Of  all  we  know, 
Or  all  that  we  can  dream  below, 
Of  that  far  land  to  which  we  go, 

"  This  one  assurance  hath  expressed, 
To  me,  its  blessedness  the  best,  — 
'  He  giveth  his  beloved  rest.'  " 

And  the  youth  answered  :  "  If  it  be 

A  place  of  inactivity, 

It  cannot  be  a  heaven  to  me. 

"  Surely  its  joy  must  be  to  lack 
These  hindrances  that  keep  us  back 
From  rising  on  a  shining  track  ; 

"  Where  each  shall  find  his  own  true 

height, 

Though  in  our  place,  and  in  our  light, 
We  differ  as  the  stars  of  night." 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


279 


I  listened,  till  they  ceased  to  speak  ; 
And    my    heart    answered,    faint    and 

weak, 
Their  heaven  is  not  the  heaven  I  seek  ! 

Yet  their  discourse  awoke  again 
Some  hidden  memories  that  had  lain 
Long  undisturbed  within  my  brain. 

For  oft,  when  bowed  earth's  care  be- 
neath, 

I  had  asked  others  of  their  faith 
In  the  life  following  after  death  ; 

And  what  that  better  world  could  be, 
Where,  from  mortality  set  free, 
We  put  on  immortality. 

And  each  in  his  reply  had  shown 
That  he  had  shaped  and  made  his  own 
By  the  best  things  which  he  had  known  : 

Or  fashioned  it  to  heal  the  woe 
Of  some  great  sorrow,  which  below 
It  was  his  hapless  lot  to  know. 

A  mother  once  had  said  to  me, 
Over  her  dead  :  "  My  heaven  will  be 
An  undivided  family." 

One  sick  with  mortal  doubts  and  fears, 
With  looking  blindly  through  her  tears, 
The  way  that  she  had  looked  for  years, 

Told  me  :  "  That  world  could  have  no 

pain, 

Since  there  we  should  not  wait  in  vain 
For  feet  that  will  not  come  again." 

A  lover  dreamed  that  heaven  would  be 
Life's  hour  of  perfect  ecstasy, 
Drawn  out  into  eternity  ! 

Men  bending  to  their  hopeless  doom, 
Toiling  as  in  a  living  tomb, 
Down  shafts  of  everlasting  gloom, 

Out  of  the  dark  had  answered  me  : 
"  Where  there  is  light  for  us  to  see 
Each  other's  faces,  heaven  must  be." 

An  aged  man,  who  bowed  his  head 
With  reverence  o'er  the  page,  and  read 
The  words  that  ancient  prophets  said, 

Talked  of  a  glory  never  dim, 
Of  the  veiled  face  of  cherubim, 
And  harp,  and  everlasting  hymn  ;  — 


Saw  golden  streets  and  glittering  tow- 
ers — 

Saw  peaceful  valleys,  white  with  flow- 
ers, 

Kept  never-ending  Sabbath  hours. 

One,  who  the  cruel  sea  had  crossed, 
And  seen,  through  billows  madly  tossed, 
Great   shipwrecks,   where   brave   souls 
were  lost, 

Thus  of  the  final  voyage  spake  : 

"  Coming  to  heaven  must  be  to  make 

Safe  port,  and  no  more  journeys  take." 

And  now  their  words  of  various  kind 
Come  back  to  my  bewildered  mind, 
And    my    faith    staggered,    faint    and 
blind, 

One  moment ;  then  this   truth  seemed 

plain, 

These  have  not  trusted  God  in  vain  ; 
To  ask  of  Him  must  be  to  gain. 

Every  imaginable  good, 

We,  erring,  sinful,  mortal,  would 

Give  the  beloved,  if  we  could  ; 

And  shall  not  He,  whose  care  en- 
folds 

Our  life,  and  all  our  way  controls, 
Yet  satisfy  our  longing  souls  ? 

Since  mortal  step  hath  never  been, 
And  mortal  eye  hath  never  seen, 
Past  death's  impenetrable  screen, 

Who  shall  dare  limit  Him  above, 

Or    tell    the    ways    in    which    He  '11 

prove 
Unto  his  children  all  his  love  ? 

Then  joy  through  all  my  being  spread, 
And,  comforted  myself,  I  said  : 
O  weary  world,  be  comforted  ! 

Souls,    in   your   quest  of    bliss   grown 

weak  — 
Souls,  whose  great  woe  no  words  can 

speak  — 
Not  always  shall  ye  vainly  seek  ! 

Men  whose  whole   lives  have  been   a 

night, 
Shall  come  from  darkness  to  the 

light  ; 
Wanderers  shall  hail  the  land  in  sight. 


280 


THE  POEMS  OF  PUCE  BE   GARY. 


Old  saints,  and  martyrs  of  the  Lamb, 
Shall  rise  to  sing  their  triumph  psalm, 
And    wear    the    crown,  and    bear    the 
palm. 

And  the  pale  mourner,  with  bowed  head, 
Who,  for  the  living  lost,  or  dead, 
Here  weeps,  shall  there  be  gently  led, 

To  feel,  in  that  celestial  place, 

The  tears  wiped  softly  from  her  face, 

And  know  love's  comforting  embrace, 

So  shall  we  all,  who  groan  in  this, 
Find,  in  that  new  life's  perfectness, 
Our  own  peculiar  heaven  of  bliss  — 

More  glorious  than  our  faith  believed, 
Brighter   than   dreams   our    hope    has 

weaved, 
Better  than  all  our  hearts  conceived. 

Therefore  will  I  wait  patiently, 
Trusting,  where  all  God's  mansions  be 
There  hath  been  one  prepared  for  me ; 

And  go  down  calmly  to  death's  tide, 
Knowing,  when  on  the  other  side 
I  wake,  I  shall  be  satisfied. 


THE  SPIRITUAL  BODY. 

I  HAVE  a  heavenly  home, 
To  which  my  soul  may  come, 

And  where  forever  safe  it  may  abide  ; 
Firmly  and  sure  it  stands, 
That  house  not  made  with  hands, 

And    garnished    as    a    chamber   for   a 
bride ! 

'T  is  such  as  angels  use, 
Such  as  good  men  would  choose  ; 
It  hath  all  fair  and  pleasant  things  in 

sight : 

Its  walls  as  white  and  fine 
As  polished  ivory  shine, 
And  through  its  windows  comes  celes- 
tial light. 

'T  is  builded  fair  and  good, 

In  the  similitude 
Of  the  most  royal  palace  of  a  king  ; 

And  sorrow  may  not  come 

Into  that  heavenly  home, 
Nor    pain,    nor    death,    nor    any    evil 
thing. 


Near  it  that  stream  doth  pass 
Whose  waters,  clear  as  glass, 

Make   glad   the  city  of   our  God  with 

song  ; 

Whose  banks  are  fair  as  those 
Whereon  stray  milk-white  do'es, 

Feeding  among  the  lilies  all  day  long. 

And  friends  who  once  were  here 

Abide  in  dwellings  near  ; 
They   went   up   thither   on  a  heavenly 
road; 

While  I,  though  warned  to  go, 

Yet  linger  here  below, 
Clinging  to  a  most  miserable  abode, 

The  evil  blasts  drive  in 
Through  chinks,  which  time  and  sin 
Have  battered  in  my  wretched  house  of 

clay; 

Yet  in  so  vile  a  place, 
Poor,  unadorned  with  grace, 
I  choose  to  live,   or  rather   choose   to 
stay. 

And  here  I  make  my  moan 
About  the  days  now  gone, 
About  the  souls  passed  on  to  their  re- 
ward ; 

The  souls  that  now  have  come 
Into  a  better  home, 

And  sit  in  heavenly  places  with   their 
Lord. 

'T  is  strange  that  I  should  cling 
To  this  despised  thing, 
To  this  poor  dwelling  crumbling  round 

my  head  ; 

Making  myself  content 
In  a  low  tenement, 

After   my   joys   and  friends   alike   are 
fled! 

Yet  I  shall  not,  I  know, 
Be  ready  hence  to  go, 
And  dwell  in  my  good  palace,  fair  and 

whole, 

Till  unrelenting  Death 
Blows  with  his  icy  breath 
Upon     my     naked     and     unsheltered 
soul ! 


A  GOOD  DAY. 

EARTH  seems  as  peaceful  and  as  bright 
As  if  the  year  that  might  not  stay, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


281 


Had  made  a  sweet  pause  in  her  flight, 
To  keep  another  Sabbath  day. 

And  I,  as  past  the  moments  roll, 
Forgetting  human  fear  and  doubt, 

Hold  better  Sabbath,  in  my  soul, 

Than  that  which  Nature  holds  with- 
out. 

Help  me,  O  Lord,  if  I  shall  see 

Times  when  I  walk  from  hope  apart, 

Till  all  my  days  but  seem  to  be 

The  troubled  week-days  of  the  heart. 

Help  me  to  find,  in  seasons  past, 

The  hours   that  have  been  gbod  or 
fair, 

And  bid  remembrance  hold  them  fast, 
To  keep  me  wholly  from  despair. 

Help  me  to  look  behind,  before, 
To  make  my  past  and  future  form 

A  bow  of  promise,  meeting  o'er 
The  darkness  of  my  day  of  storm. 


HYMN. 

How  dare  I  in  thy  courts  appear, 
Or  raise  to  thee  my  voice  ! 

I  only  serve  thee,  Lord,  with  fear, 
With  trembling  I  rejoice. 

I  have  not  all  forgot  thy  word, 
Nor  wholly  gone  astray  ; 

I  follow  thee,  but  oh,  my  Lord, 
So  faint,  so  far  away  ! 

That  thou  wilt  pardon  and  receive 
Of  sinners  even  the  chief, 

Lord,  I  believe,  —  Lord,  I  believe  ; 
Help  thou  mine  unbelief  ! 


DRAWING  WATER. 


HE 


had   drunk  from  founts   of  pleas- 
ure, 

And  his  thirst  returned  again ; 
He  had  hewn  out  broken  cisterns, 
And  behold  !  his  work  was  vain. 

And  he  said,  "  Life  is  a  desert, 
Hot,  and  measureless,  and  dry; 

And  God  will  not  give  me  water, 
Though  I  strive,  and  faint,  and  die." 


Then  he  heard  a  voice  make  answer, 
"  Rise  and  roll  the  stone  away  ; 

Sweet  and  precious  springs  lie  hidden 
In  thy  pathway  every  day." 

And  he  said,  his  heart  was  sinful, 

Very  sinful  was  his  speech  : 
"  All  the  cooling  wells  I  thirst  for 

Are  too  deep  for  me  to  reach." 

But   the  Voice  cried,   "  Hope   and   la- 
bor ; 

Doubt  and  idleness  is  death  ; 
Shape  a  clear  and  goodly  vessel, 

With  the  patient  hands  of  faith." 

So  he  wrought  and  shaped  the  vessel, 
Looked,  and  lo  !  a  well  was  there  ; 

And  he  drew  up  living  water, 
With  a  golden  chain  of  prayer. 


TOO  LATE. 

BLESSINGS,  alas  !  unmerited, 
Freely  as  evening  dews  are  shed 
Each  day  on  my  unworthy  head. 

So  that  my  very  sins  but  prove 
The  sinlessness  of  Him  above 
And  his  unutterable  love. 

And  yet,  as  if  no  ear  took  heed, 
Not  what  I  ask,  but  what  I  need, 
Comes  down  in  answer,  when  I  plead. 

So  that  my  heart  with  anguish  cries, 
My  soul  almost  within  me  dies, 
'Twixt  what  God  gives,  and  what  de- 


For  howsoe'er  with  good  it  teems, 
The  life  accomplished  never  seems 
The  blest  fulfillment  of  its  dreams. 

Therefore,  when  nearest  happiness, 
I  only  say,  The  thing  I  miss  — 
That  would  have  perfected  my  bliss  ! 

When  harvests  great  are  mine  to  reap, 
Too  late,  too  late  !  I  sit  and  weep, 
My  best  beloved  lies  asleep  ! 

Sometimes  my  griefs  are  hard  to  bear, 
Sometimes  my  comforts  I  would  share, 
And  the  one  dearest  is  not  there. 


282 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE    GARY. 


That  which  is  mine  to-day,  I  know, 
Had  made  a  paradise  below, 
Only  a  little  year  ago. 

The  sunshine  we  then  did  crave, 
As  having  almost  power  to  save, 
Keeps  now  the  greenness  of  a  grave. 

To  have  our  dear  one  safe  from  gloom, 
We  planned  a  fair  and  pleasant  room, 
And  lo  !  Fate  builded  up  a  tomb. 

An  empty  heart,  with  cries  unstilled, 
An  empty  house,  with  love  unfilled, 
These  are  the  things  our  Father  willed. 

And  bowing  to  Him,  as  we  must, 
Whose  name  is  Love,  whose  way  is  just, 
We  have  no  refuge,  but  our  trust. 


RETROSPECT. 

0  LOVING  One,  O  Bounteous  One, 
What  have  I  not  received  from  thee, 

Throughout  the  seasons  that  have  gone 
Into  the  past  eternity  ! 

For  looking  backward  through  the  year, 
Along  the  way  my  feet  have  pressed, 

1  see  sweet  places  everywhere, 
Sweet   places,   where   my   soul   had 

rest. 

And,  though  some  human  hopes  of  mine 
Are  dead,  and  buried  from  my  sight, 

Yet  from  their  graves  immortal  flowers 
Have  sprung,  and  blossomed  into 
light. 

Body,  and  heart,  and  soul,  have  been 
Fed  by  the  most  convenient  food  ; 

My  nights  are  peaceful  all  the  while, 
And  all  my  mortal  days  are  good. 

My  sorrows  have  not  been  so  light, 
The    chastening    hand    I    could   not 
trace  ; 

Nor  have  my  blessings  been  so  great 
That  they  have  hid  my  Father's  face. 


HUMAN  AND   DIVINE. 

VILE,  and  deformed  by  sin  I  stand, 
A  creature  earthy  of  the  earth  ; 


Yet  fashioned  by  God's  perfect  hand, 
And  in  his  likeness  at  my  birth. 

Here  in  a  wretched  land  I  roam, 
As  one  who  had  no  home  but  this  ; 

Yet  am  invited  to  become 
Partaker  in  a  world  of  bliss. 

A  tenement  of  misery, 

Of  clay  is  this  to  which  I  cling  : 
A  royal  palace  waits  for  me, 

Built  by  the  pleasure  of  my  King  ! 

My  heavenly  birthright  I  forsake,  — 
An  outcast,  and  unreconciled  ; 

The  manner  of  his  love  doth  make 
My  Father  own  me  as  his  child. 

Shortened  by  reason  of  man's  wrong, 
My  evil  days  I  here  bemoan  ; 

Yet  know  my  life  must  last  as  long 
As  his,  who  struck  it  from  his  own. 

Turned  wholly  am  I  from  the  way, — " 
Lost,  and  eternally  undone  ; 

I  am  of  those,  though  gone  astray, 
The  Father  seeketh  through  the  Soa 

I  wander  in  a  maze  of  fear, 

Hid  in  impenetrable  night, 
Afar  from  God  —  and  yet  so  near, 

He  keeps  me  always  in  his  sight. 

I  am  as  dross,  and  less  than  dross, 
Worthless  as  worthlessness  can  be ; 

I  am  so  precious  that  the  cross 
Darkened  the  universe  for  me  ! 

I  am  unfit,  even  from  the  dust, 

Master  !  to  kiss  thy  garment's  hem  : 

I  am  so  dear,  that  thou,  though  just, 
Wilt  not  despise  me  nor  condemn. 

Accounted  am  I  as  the  least 

Of  creatures  valueless  and  mean  ; 

Yet  heaven's  own  joy  shall  be  increased 
If  e'er  repentance  wash  me  clean. 

Naked,  ashamed,  I  hide  my  face, 

All  seamed  by  guilt's  defacing  scars  ; 

I  may  be  clothed  with  righteousness 
Above  the  brightness  of  the  stars. 

Lord,  I  do  fear  that  I  shall  go 

Where  death  and  darkness  wait  for 
me ; 

Lord,  I  believe,  and  therefore  know 
I  have  eternal  life  in  thee  ! 


RELIGIOUS  PGE1JS  AND  HYMNS. 


283 


OVER-PAYMENT. 

I  TOOK  a  little  good  seed  in  my  hand, 
And  cast  it  tearfully  upon  the  land ; 
Saying,  of  this  the  fowls  of  heaven  shall 

eat, 
Or  the  sun  scorch  it  with  his  burning 

heat. 

Yet  I,  who  sowed,  oppressed  by  doubts 
and  fears, 

Rejoicing  gathered  in  the  ripened  ears  ; 

For  when  the  harvest  turned  the  fields 
to  gold, 

Mine  yielded  back  to  me  a  thousand- 
fold. 

A  little  child   begged   humbly  at  my 

door ; 
Small  was  the  gift    I  gave  her,  being 

poor, 
But  let  my  heart  go  with  it :  therefore 

we 
Were  both  made  richer  by  that  charity. 

My  soul  with  grief  was  darkened,  I  was 
bowed 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  awful  cloud ; 

When  one,  whose  sky  was  wholly  over- 
spread, 

Came  to  me  asking  to  be  comforted. 

It  roused  me  from  my  weak  and  selfish 

fears ; 

It  dried  my  own  to  dry  another's  tears  ; 
The   bow,  to  which    I    pointed   in    his 

skies, 
vSet  all  my  cloud  with  sweetest  promises. 

Once,  seeing  the  inevitable  way 

My  feet   must   tread,  through  difficult 

places  lay  ; 

I  cannot  go  alone,  I  cried,  dismayed, — 
I  faint,  I  fail,  I  perish,  without  aid ! 

Yet,  when  I  looked  to  see  if  help  were 

nigh, 

A  creature  weaker,  wretcheder  than  I, 
One  on  whose  head  life's  fiercest  storms 

had  beai, 
Clung  to  my  garments,  falling  at  my 

feet. 

I  saw,  I  paused  no  more :  my  courage 

found, 
I  stooped  and  raised  her  gently  from 

the  ground  : 


Through  every  peril  safe  I  passed  at 

length, 
For  she  who  leaned  upon  me  gave  me 

strength. 

Once,  when  I  hid  my  wretched  self 
from  Him, 

My  Father's  brightness  seemed  with- 
drawn and  dim  : 

But  when  I  lifted  up  mine  eyes  I  learned 

His  face  to  those  who  seek  is  always 
turned. 

A  half-unwilling  sacrifice  I  made  : 
Ten   thousand    blessings   on   my  head 

were  laid  ; 

I  asked  a  comforting  spirit  to  descend  : 
God  made  Himself  my  comforter  and 

friend. 

I  sought  his  mercy  in  a  faltering  prayer, 
And  lo  !  his  infinite  tenderness  and  care, 
Like  a  great  sea,  that  hath  no  ebbing 

tide, 
Encompassed  me  with  love  on  every 

side! 


VAIN  REPENTANCE. 

Do  we  not  say,  forgive  us,  Lord, 
Oft  when  too  well  we  understand 

Our  sorrow  is  not  such  as  thou 
Requirest  at  the  sinner's  hand  ? 

Have  we  not  sought  thy  face  in  tears, 
When  our  desire  hath  rather  been 

Deliverance  from  the  punishment, 
Than  full  deliverance  from  the  sin  ? 

Alas  !  we  mourn  because  we  fain 

Would  keep  the  things  we  should  re- 
sign: 

And  pray,  because  we  cannot  pray  — 
Not  my  rebellious  will,  but  thine  ! 


IN   EXTREMITY. 

THINK  on  him,  Lord  !  we  ask  thy  aid 
In  life's  most  dreaded  extremity  : 

For  evil  days  have  come  to  him, 
Who  in  his  youth  remembered  thee. 

Look  on  him,  Lord  !  for  heart  and  flesh, 
Alike,  must  fail  without  thy  grace  : 


284 


Part  back  the  clouds,  that  he  may  see 
The  brightness  of  his  Father's  face. 

Speak  to  him,  Lord  !  as  thou  didst  talk 
To  Adam,  in  the  Garden's  shade, 

And  grant  it  unto  him  to  hear 
Thy  voice,  and  not  to  be  afraid. 

Support  him,  Lord  !  that  he  may  come, 
Leaning  on  thee,  in  faith  sublime, 

Up  to  that  awful  landmark,  set 
Between  eternity  and  time. 

And,  Lord  !  if  it  must  be  that  we 
Shall  walk  with  him  no  more  below, 

Reach  out  of  heaven  thy  loving  hand, 
And  lead  him  where  we  cannot  go. 


PECCAVI. 

I  HAVE  sinned,  I  have  sinned,  before 

thee,  the  Most  Holy  ! 
And  I  come  as  a  penitent,  bowing  down 

lowly, 
With  my  lips  making  freely  their  awful 

admission, 
And  mine  eyes  raining  bitterest  tears 

of  contrition  ; 
And  I  cry  unto  thee,  with  my  mouth  in 

the  dust : 

O  God  !  be  not  just ! 

0  God  !  be  not  just ;   but  be  merciful 

rather,  — 

Let  me  see  not  the  face  of  my  Judge 
but  my  Father : 

A  sinner,  a  culprit,  I  stand  self-con- 
victed, 

Yet  the  pardoning  power  is  thine  un- 
restricted ; 

1  am  weak ;    thou  art  strong :    in  thy 

goodness  and  might, 

Let  my  sentence  be  light ! 

I  have  turned  from  all  gifts  which  thy 

kindness  supplied  me  ; 
Because  of  the  one  which  thy  wisdom 

denied  me  ; 
1  have  bandaged  mine  eyes  —  yea,  mine 

own  hands  have  bound  me ; 
I  have  made  me  a  darkness,  when  light 

was  around  me  : 
And  I  cry  by  the  way-side :    O  Lord 

that  I  might 

Receive  back  my  sight ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHOEBE   CARY. 


For  the  sake  of  my  guilt,  may  my  guilt 

be  forgiven, 
And  because  mine  iniquities  mount  unto 

heaven  ! 
Let    my   sins,   which   are   crimson,   be 

snow  in  their  brightness  ; 
Let  my  sins,  which  are  scarlet,  be  wool 

in  their  whiteness. 
I  am  out  of  the  way,  and  my  soul  is 

dismayed  — 

I  am  lost,  and  afraid. 

I  have  sinned,  and  against  Him  whose 

justice  may  doom  me  ; 
Insulted   his   power   whose   wrath   can 

consume  me  : 
Yet,  by  that  blest  name  by  which  angels 

adore  Him  — 
That  name  through  which  mortals  may 

dare  come  before  Him  — 
I  come,  saying  only,  My  Father  above, 
My  God,  be  thou  Love  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 

O  TIME  by  holy  prophets  long  foretold, 
Time  waited  for  by  saints  in  days  of  old, 
O  sweet,  auspicious  morn 
When  Christ,  the  Lord,  was  born  ! 

Again  the  fixed  changes  of  the  year 
Have  brought  that  season  to  the  world 

most  dear, 

When  angels,  all  aflame, 
Bringing  good  tidings  came. 

Again  we  think  of  her,  the  meek,  the 

mild, 
The  dove-eyed  mother  of  the  holy  Child, 

The  chosen,  and  the  best, 

Among  all  women  blest. 

We   think   about   the   shepherds,  who, 

dismayed, 
Fell  on  their  faces,  trembling  and  afraid, 

Until  they  heard  the  cry, 

Glory  to  God  on  high  ! 

And  we  remember  those  who  from  afar 
Followed  the  changing  glory  of  the  star 

To  where  its  light  was  shed 

Upon  the  sacred  head  : 

And   how   each   trembling,   awe-struck 

worshiper 
Brought  gifts  of  gold  and  frankincense 

and  myrrh, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


285 


And  spread  them  on  the  ground 
In  reverence  profound. 

We  think  what  joy  it  would  nave  been 

to  share 
In  their  high  privilege  who  came  to  bear 

Sweet  spice  and  costly  gem 

To  Christ,  in  Bethlehem. 

And  in  that  thought  we  half  forget  that 
He 

Is  whereso'er  we  seek  Him  earnestly  ; 
Still  rilling  every  place 
With  sweet,  abounding  grace. 

And  though  in  garments   of  the  flesh, 

as  then, 
No   more  He  walks   this   sinful   earth 

with  men, 

The  poor,  to  Him  most  dear, 
Are  always  with  us  here. 

And  He  saith,  Inasmuch  as  ye  shall  take 
Good  to  these  little  ones  for  my  dear  sake, 
In  that  same  measure  ye 
Have  brought  it  unto  me  ! 

Therefore,  O  men  in  prosperous  homes 

who  live, 
Having  all  blessings  earthly  wealth  can 

give, 

Remember  their  sad  doom 
For  whom  there  is  no  room  — 

No  room  in  any  home,  in  any  bed, 
No   soft   white    pillow  waiting  for   the 
head, 

And  spare  from  treasures  great 

To  help  their  low  estate. 

Mothers  whose  sons  fill  all  your  homes 

with  light, 
Think  of  the  sons  who  once  made  homes 

as  bright, 

Now  laid  in  sleep  profound 
On  some  sad  battle-ground  ; 

And  into  darkened  dwellings  come  with 

cheer, 
With  pitying  hand  to  wipe  the  falling 

tear, 

Comfort  for  Christ's  dear  sake 
To  childless  mothers  take  ! 

Children  whose  lives  are  blest  with  love 

untold, 
Whose  gifts  are  greater  than  your  arms 

can  hold, 


Think  of  the  child  who  stands 
To-day  with  empty  hands  ! 

Go  fill  them  up,  and  you  will  also  fill 
Their  empty  hearts,  that  lie  so  cold  and 

still, 

And  brighten  longing  eyes 
With  grateful,  glad  surprise. 

May  all  who  have,  at  this  blest  season 

seek 
His   precious  little  ones,  the  poor  and 

weak, 

In  joyful,  sweet  accord, 
Thus  lending  to  the  Lord. 

Yea,  Crucified   Redeemer,   who    didst 

give 
Thy  toil,  thy  tears,  thy  life,  that  we 

might  live, 

Thy  Spirit  grant,  that  we 
May  live  one  day  for  thee  ! 


COMPENSATION. 

CROOKED  and  dwarfed  the  tree  must  stay, 
Nor  lift  its  green  head  to  the  day, 
Till  useless  growths  are  lopped  away. 

And  thus  doth  human  nature  do  ; 

Till  it  hath  careful  pruning  too, 

It  cannot  grow  up  straight  and  true. 

For,  but  for  chastenings  severe, 
No  soul  could  ever  tell  how  near 
God  comes,  to  whom  He  loveth,  here. 

Without  life's  ills,  we  could  not  feel 
The  blessed  change  from  woe  to  weal ; 
Only  the  wounded  limb  can  heal. 

The  sick  and  suffering  learn  below, 
That  which  the  whole  can  never  know, 
Of  the  soft  hand  that  soothes  their  woe. 

And  never  man  is  blest  as  he, 
Who,  freed  from  some  infirmity, 
Rejoices  in  his  liberty. 

He  sees,  with  new  and  glad  surprise, 
The  world  that  round  about  him  lies, 
Who  slips  the  bandage  from  his  eyes  ; 

And  comes  from  where  he  long  hath  lain, 
Comes  from  the  darkness  and  the  pain, 
Out  into  God's  full  light  again. 


286 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHQLBE   GARY. 


They  only  know  who  wait  in  fear 
The  music  of  a  footstep  near, 
Falling  upon  the  listening  ear. 

And    life's    great  depths    are    soonest 

stirred 

In  him  who  hath  but  seldom  heard 
The  magic  of  a  loving  word. 

Joy  after  grief  is  more  complete  ; 
And  kisses  never  fall  so  sweet 
As  when  long-parted  lovers  meet. 

One  who  is  little  used  to  such, 
Surely  can  tell  us  best  how  much 
There  is  in  a  kind  smile  or  touch. 

'T  is  like  the    spring  wind    from   the 

south, 

Or  water  to  the  fevered  mouth, 
Or  sweet  rain  falling  after  drouth. 

By  him  the  deepest  rest  is  won 
Who  toils  beneath  the  noonday  sun 
Faithful  until  his  work  is  done. 

And  watchers  through  the  weary  night 
Have  learned  how  pleasantly  the  light 
Of  morning  breaks  upon  the  sight. 

Perchance  the  jewel  seems  most  fair 
To  him  whose  patient  toil  and  care 
Has  brought  it  to  the  upper  air. 

And  other  lips  can  never  taste 

A  draught  like  that  he  finds  at  last 

Who  seeks  it  in  the  burning  waste. 

When  to  the  mother's  arms  is  lent, 
That  sweet  reward  for  suffering  sent 
To  her,  from  the  Omnipotent, 

I  think  its  helpless,  pleading  cry 
Touches  her  heart  more  tenderly, 
Because  of  her  past  agony. 

We  learn  at  last,  how  good  and  brave 
Was   the    dear    friend   we    could    not 

save, 
When  he  has  slipped  into  the  grave. 

And  after  he  has  come  to  hide 

Our  lambs  upon  the  other  side, 

We  know  our  Shepherd  and  our  Guide. 

And  thus,  by  ways  not  understood, 
Out  of  each  dark  vicissitude, 
God  brings  us  compensating  good. 


For  Faith  is  perfected  by  fears, 
And  souls  renew  their  youth  with  years, 
And  Love  looks   into    heaven  through 
tears. 


RECONCILED. 

O  YEARS,  gone  down  into  the  past ; 

What  pleasant  memories  come  to  me 
Of  your  untroubled  days  of  peace, 

And  hours  almost  of  ecstasy  ! 

Yet  would  I  have  no  moon  stand  still 
Where  life's  most  pleasant  valleys  lie  ; 

Nor  wheel  the  planet  of  the  day 

Back   on   his    pathway  through    the 
sky. 

For  though,  when  youthful  pleasures 
died, 

My  youth  itself  went  with  them,  too  ; 
To-day,  aye  !  even  this  very  hour, 

Is  the  best  time  I  ever  knew. 

Not  that  my  Father  gives  to  me 

More  blessings  than  in  days  gone  by  ; 

Dropping  in  my  uplifted  hands 
All  things  for  which  I  blindly  cry  : 

But  that  his  plans  and  purposes 

Have  grown  to  me  less  strange  and 
dim  ; 

And  where  I  cannot  understand, 
I  trust  the  issues  unto  Him. 

And,  spite  of  many  broken  dreams, 
This  have  I  truly  learned  to  say,  — 

The  prayers  I  thought  unanswered  once, 
Were  answered  in   God's    own   best 
way. 

And  though  some  dearly  cherished 
hopes 

Perished  untimely  ere  their  birth, 
Yet  have  I  been  beloved  and  blessed 

Beyond  the  measure  of  my  worth. 

And  sometimes  in  my  hours  of  grief, 
For  moments  1  have  come  to  stand 

Where  in  the  sorrows  on  me  laid, 
I  felt  a  loving  Father's  hand. 

And  I  have  learned,  the  weakest  ones 
Are  kept  securest  from  life's  harms ; 

And  that  the  tender  lambs  alone 
Are  carried  in  the  Shepherd's  arms. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


287 


And,  sitting  by  the  way-side,  blind, 
He  is  the  nearest  to  the  light, 

Who  crieth  out  most  earnestly, 

"  Lord,    that    I    might    receive    my 
sight  ! " 

O  feet,  grown  weary  as  ye  walk, 

Where  down  life's  hill   my  pathway 

lies, 

What  care  I,  while  my  soul  can  mount, 
-   As  the  young  eagle  mounts  the  skies  ! 

O  eyes,  with  weeping  faded  out, 
What  matters  it  how  dim  ye  be 

My  inner  vision  sweeps  untired 
The  reaches  of  eternity  ! 

O  Death,  most  dreaded  power  of  all, 
When  the  last   moment  comes,  and 
thou 

Darkenest  the  windows  of  my  soul, 
Through   which   I    look    on   Nature 


Yea,  when  mortality  dissolves, 

Shall  I  not  meet  thine  hour  unawed  ? 

My  house  eternal  in  the  heavens 
Is  lighted  by  the  smile  of  God  ! 


THOU  KNOWEST. 

LORD,  with  what  body  do  they  come 
Who  in  corruption  here  are  sown, 

When  with  humiliation  done, 
They  wear  the  likeness  of  thine  own  ? 

Lord,  of  what  manner  didst  thou  make 
The  fruits  upon  life's  healing  tree  ? 

Where  flows  that  water  we  may  take 
And  thirst  not  through  eternity  ? 

Where  lie  the  beds  of  lilies  prest 
By  virgins  whiter  than  their  snow  ? 

What  can  we  liken  to  the  rest 

Thy  well-beloved  yet  shall  know  ? 

And   where   no   moon   shall   shine    by 
night, 

No  sun  shall  rise  and  take  his  place, 
How  shall  we  look  upon  the  light, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  that  lights  thy  face  ? 

How  shall  we  speak  our  joy  that  day 
We  stand  upon  the  peaceful  shore, 

Where  blest  inhabitants  shall  say, 
Lo  !  we  are  sick  and  sad  no  more  ? 


What  anthems  shall  they  raise  to  thee, 
The  host  upon  the  other  side  ? 

What  will  our  depths  of  rapture  be 
When  heart  and  soul  are  satisfied  ? 

How  will  life  seem  when  fear,  nor  dread, 
Nor  mortal  weakness  chains  our 
powers  ; 

When  sin  is  crushed,  and  death  is  dead, 
And  all  eternity  is  ours  ? 

When,  with  our  lover  and  our  spouse, 
We  shall  as  angels  be  above, 

And  plight  no   troths   and  breathe  no 

vows, 
How  shall  we  tell  and  prove  our  love  ? 

How  can  we  take  in  faith  thy  hand, 
And    walk    the    way  that    we   must 

tread  ? 

How  can  we  trust  and  understand 
That  Christ  will   raise   us   from   the 
dead  ? 

We  cannot  see  nor  know  to-day, 
For  He  hath  made  us  of  the  dust : 

We  can  but  wait  his  time,  and  say, 
Even   though    He    slay   me,    will    I 
trust  ! 

Swift  to  the  dead  we  hasten  now, 
And  know  not  even  the  way  we  go  ; 

Yet  quick  and  dead  are  thine,  and  thou  — 
Thou  knowest  all  we  do  not  know  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 

THIS  happy  day,  whose  risen  sun 
Shall  set  not  through  eternity, 

This  holy  day  when  Christ,  the  Lord, 
Took  on  Him  our  humanity, 

For  little  children  everywhere 
A  joyous  season  still  we  make  , 

We  bring  our  precious  gifts  to  them, 
Even  for  the  dear  child  Jesus'  sake. 

The  glory  from  the  manger  shed, 
Wherein  the  lowly  Saviour  lay, 

Shines  as  a  halo  round  the  head 
Of  every  human  child  to-day. 

And  each  unconscious  infant  sleeps 
Intrusted  to  his  guardian  care  ; 

Hears  his  dear  name  in  cradle  hymns, 
And  lisps  it  in  its  earliest  prayer. 


288 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Thou  blessed  Babe  of  Bethlehem  ! 

Whose  life  we  love,  whose  name  we 

laud; 
Thou  Brother,  through  whose  poverty, 

We  have  become  the  heirs  of  God'; 

Thou  sorrowful,  yet  tempted  Man  — 
Tempted  in  all  things  like  as  we, 

Treading  with  tender,  human  feet, 
The  sharp,  rough  way  of  Calvary  ; 

We  do  remember  how,  by  thee, 

The  sick  were  healed,  the  halting  led  ; 

How  thou  didst  take  the  little  ones 
And  pour  thy  blessings  on  their  head. 

We  know  for  what  unworthy  men 
Thou  once  didst  deign  to  toil  and  live ; 

What  weak  and  sinful  women  thou 
Didst  love,  and  pity,  and  forgive. 

And,  Lord,  if  to  the  sick  and  poor 
We  go  with  generous  hearts  to-day, 

Or  in  forbidden  places  seek 

For  such  as  wander  from  the  way ; 

And  by  our  loving  words  or  deeds 
Make  this  a  hallowed  time  to  them  ; 

Though  we  ourselves  be  found  unmeet, 
For  sin,  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem  ; 

Wilt  thou  not,  for  thy  wondrous  grace, 

And  for  thy  tender  charity, 
Accept  the  good  we  do  to  these, 

As  we  had  done  it  unto  thee  ? 

And  for  the  precious  little  ones, 

Here  from  their  native  heaven  astray, 

Strong  in  their  very  helplessness, 
To  lead  us  in  the  better  way  ; 

If  we  shall  make  thy  natal  day 
A  season  of  delight  to  these, 

A  season  always  crowded  full 
Of  sweet  and  pleasant  memories ; 

Wilt  thou  not  grant  us  to  forget 

Awhile  our  weight  of  care  and  pain, 

And  in  their  joys,  bring  back  their  joy 
Of  early  innocence  again  ? 

O  holy  Child,  about  whose  bed 
The  virgin  mother  softly  trod  ; 

Dead  once,  yet  living  evermore, 
O  Son  of  Mary,  and  of  God  ! 

If  any  act  that  we  can  do, 

If  any  thought  of  ours  is  right, 


If  any  prayer  we  lift  to  thee, 

May  find  acceptance  in  thy  sight, 

Hear  us,  and  give  to  us,  to-day, 
In  answer  to  our  earnest  cries, 

Some  portion  of  that  sacred  love 
That  drew  thee  to  us  from  the  skies  ! 


PRODIGALS. 

AGAIN,  in  the  Book  of  Books,  to-day 
I  read  of  that  Prodigal,  far  away 

In  the  centuries  agone, 
Who  took  the  portion  that  to  him  fell, 
And  went  from   friends  and  home   to 

.       dwell 

In  a  distant  land  alone. 

And  when  his  riotous  living  was  done, 
And  his  course  of  foolish  pleasure  run, 

And  a  fearful  famine  rose, 
He  fain  would  have   fed  with  the  very 

swine, 
And  no  man  gave  him  bread  nor  wine, 

For  his  friends  were  changed  to  foes. 

And  I  thought,  when  at  last  his  state  he 

knew 
What  a  little  thing  he  had  to  do, 

To  win  again  his  place  : 
Only  the  madness  of  sin  to  learn, 
To  come  to  himself,  repent,  and  turn, 

And  seek  his  father's  face. 

Then  I  thought  however  vile  we  are, 
Not  one  of  us  hath  strayed  so  far 

From  the  things  that  are  good  and 

pure, 

But  if  to  gain  his  home  he  tried, 
He  would  find  the  portal  open  wide, 

And  find  his  welcome  sure. 

My  fellow-sinners,  though  you  dwell 
In  haunts  where  the  feet  take  hold  on 
hell, 

Where  the  downward  way  is  plain  ; 
Think,  who  is  waiting  for  you  at  home, 
Repent,  and  come  to  yourself,  and  come 

To  your  Father's  house  again  ! 

Say,  out  of  the  depths  of  humility, 

"  I  have  lost  the  claim  of  a  child  on  thee, 

I  would  serve  thee  with  the  least !  " 
And  He  will  a  royal  robe  prepare, 
He  will  call  you  son,  and  call  you  heir; 

And  seat  you  at  the  feast. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


Yea,  fellow-sinner,  rise  to-day, 

And  run  till  He  meets  you  on  the  way, 

Till  you  hear  the  glad  words  said,  — 
"  Let  joy  through  all  the  heavens  resound ', 
For  this,  my  son,  who  was  lost  is  found, 

And  he  lives  who  once  was  dead.n 


ST.  BERNARD  OF   CLAIRVAUX. 

IN  the  shade  of  the  cloister,  long  ago  — 
They  are  dead  and  buried  for  cent- 
uries — 

The  pious  monks  walked  to  and  fro, 
Talking  of  holy  mysteries. 

By  a  blameless  life  and  penance  hard, 
Each  brother  there  had   proved  his 

call; 

But  the  one  we  name  the  St.  Bernard 
Was  the  sweetest  soul  among  them 
all. 

And  oft  as  a  silence  on  them  fell, 

He  would  pause,  and  listen,  and  whis- 
per low, 
"  There  is  One  who  waits  for  me  in  my 

cell; 
I  hear  Him  calling,  and  I  must  go  !  " 

No  charm  of  human  fellowship 

His  soul   from  its  dearest  love   can 

bind  ; 

With  a  "  Jesu  Dulcis  "  on  his  lip, 
He  leaves  all  else  that  is  sweet  be- 
hind. 

The  only  hand  that  he  longs  to  take, 
Pierced,  from  the  cross  is  reaching 

down  ; 

And  the  head  he  loves,  for  his  dear  sake 
Was   wounded   once   with   a   thorny 
crown. 

Ah  !  men  and  brethren,  He  whose  call 
Drew  that  holy  monk  with  a  power 

divine, 

Was  the  One  who  is  calling  for  us  all, 
Was  the  Friend  of  sinners  —  yours 
and  mine  ! 

From   the  sleep  of  the  cradle  to  the 

grave, 
From  the  first  low  cry  till  the  lip  is 

dumb, 

Ready  to  help  us,  and  strong  to  save, 
He  is  calling,  and  waiting  till  we  come. 
'9 


289 


Lord  !  teach    us    always   thy    voice    to 

know, 
And  to  turn  to  thee  from  the  world 

beside, 

Prepared  when  our  time  has  come  to  go, 
Whether  at  morn  or  eventide. 

And  to  say  when  the  heavens  are  rent  in 

twain, 
When  suns  are  darkened,  and  stars 

shall  flee, 

Lo  !  thou  hast  not  called  for  us  in  vain, 
And  we  shall  not  call  in  vain  for  thee  ! 


THE 


WIDOW'S    THANKSGIV- 
ING. 


OF  the  precious  years  of  my  life,  to- 
day 

I  count  another  one  ; 
And  I  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  the  light  is 

good, 
And  't  is  sweet  to  see  the  sun. 

To  watch  the  seasons  as  they  pass, 
Their  wondrous  wealth  unfold, 

Till  the  silvery  treasures  of  the  snow 
Are  changed  to  the  harvest's- gold. 

For  kindly  still  does  the  teeming  earth 

Her  stores  of  plenty  yield, 
Whether  we  come  to  bind  the  sheaves, 

Or  only  to  glean  in  the  field. 

And  dwelling  in  such  a  pleasant  land, 
Though  poor  in  goods  and  friends, 

We  may  still  be  rich,  if  we  live  content 
With  what  our  Father  sends. 

If  we  feel  that  life  is  a  blessed  thing  — 

A  boon  to  be  desired  ; 
And  where  not  much  to  us  is  given, 

Not  much  will  be  required  ; 

And  keep  our  natures  sweet  with  the 

sense 

Of  fervent  gratitude, 
That  we  have  been  left  to  live  in  the 

world, 
And  to  know  that  God  is  good ! 

And  since  there  is  naught  of  all  we  have, 

That  we  have  not  received  : 
Shall  we  dare,  though  our  treasures  be 
reclaimed, 

To  call  ourselves  bereaved  ? 


290 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


For  't  is  easy  to  walk  by  sight  in  the  day ; 

'T  is  the  night  that  tries  our  faith  ; 
And  what  is  that  worth  if  we  render 
thanks 

For  life  and  not  for  death  ? 

Lo !    I  glean  alone  !  and  the  children, 
Lord, 

Thou  gavest  unto  me, 
Have  one  by  one  fled  out  of  my  arms, 

And  into  eternity. 

Aye,  the  last  and  the  bravest  of  them 
died 

In  prison,  far  away ; 
And  no  man,  of  his  sepulchre, 

Knoweth  the  place  to-day. 

Yet  is  not  mine  the  bitterness 
Of  the  soul  that  doth  repent ; 

If  I  had  it  now  to  do  again, 

I  would  bless  him  that  he  went. 

There  are  many  writ  in  the  book  of  life 
Whose  graves  are  marked  unknown  ; 

For  his  country  and  his  God  he  died, 
And  He  will  know  his  own  ! 

In  the  ranks  he  fought  j  but  he  stood 
the  first 

And  bravest  in  the  lines  ; 
And  no  fairer,  brighter  name  than  his 

On  the  roll  of  honor  shines. 

And  because  he  faltered  not,  nor  failed 
In  the  march,  nor  under  fire  ; 

His  great  promotion  came  at  last, 
In  the  call  to  go  up  higher. 

Fair  wives,  whose  homes  are  guarded 
round 

By  love's  securities  ; 
Mothers,  who  gather  all  your  flock 

At  night  about  your  knees  ; 

Thrice  happy,  happy  girls,  who  hold 
The  hand  of  your  lovers  fast ; 

Widows,  who  keep  an  only  son 
To  be  your  stay  to  the  last : 

You  never  felt,  though  you  give  God 
thanks 

For  his  blessings  day  by  day, 
That  perfect  peace  which  blesses  Him 

For  the  good  He  takes  away ; 

The  joy  of  a  soul  that  even  in  pain 
Beholds  his  love's  decrees, 


Who  sets  the  solitary  ones 
In  the  midst  of  families. 

Lord,  help  me   still,   at   the  midnight 

hour, 

My  lamp  of  faith  to  trim  ; 
And  to  sing  from  my  heart,  at  the  break 

of  day, 
A  glad  thanksgiving  hymn  : 

Nor  doubt  thy  love,  though  my  earthly 
joys 

Were  narrowed  down  to  this  one, 
So  long  as  the  sweet  day  shines  for  me, 

And  mine  eyes  behold  the  sun. 


VIA  CRUCIS,   VIA   LUCIS. 

QUESTIONING,  blind,  unsatisfied, 
Out  of  the  dark  my  spirit  cried,  — 
Wherefore  for  sinners,  lost,  undone, 
Gave  the  Father  his  only  Son  ? 

Clear  and  sweet  there  came  reply, — 
Out  of  my  soul  or  out  of  the  sky 
A  voice  like  music  answered  :  — 
God  so  loved  the  world,  it  said. 

Could  not  the  Lord  from  heaven  give 

aid? 

Why  was  He  born  of  the  mother-maid  ? 
Only  the  Son  of  man  could  be 
J^ouched  with  marts  infirmity  ! 

Why  must  He  lay  his  infant  head 

In  the  manger,  where  the  beasts  were 

fed? 

So  thai  tJie  poorest  here  might  cry, 
My  Lord  was  as  lowly  born  as  I ! 

Why  for  friends  did  He  choose  to  know 
Sinners  and  harlots  here  below  ? 
Not  to  the  righteous  did  He  come, 
But  to  find  and  bring  the   wanderers 
home. 

He  was  tempted  ?    Yes,  He  sounded  then 
All  that  hides  in  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
And  lie  knoweth,  when  we  intercede, 
How  to  succor  our  souls  in  their  need. 

Why  should  they  whom  He  called  his 

own, 

Deny,  betray  Him,  leave  Him  alone  ? 
That  fie  might  know  their  direst  pain, 
IVho  have  trusted  human  love  in  vain  ! 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


291 


Must  He  needs  have  washed  the  traitor's 

feet 

Ere  his  abasement  was  made  complete  ? 
Yea,  for  women  have  thus  laid  down 
Their  hearts  for  a  Judas  to  trample  on  ! 

By  one  cup  might  He  not  drink  less  ; 
Nor  lose  one  drop  of  the  bitterness ; 
Must  He  suffer,  though  without  blame, 
Stripes  and  buffeting,  scorn  and  shame  ! 

Alas  !  and  wherefore  should  it  be 
That  He  must  die  on  Calvary ; 
Must  bear  the  pain  and  the  cruel  thrust, 
Till    his   heart  with    its   very   anguish 
burst  ? 

That  martyrs,  dying  for  his  name, 
Whether  by  cross,  or  flood,  or  flame, 
Might  kncnu  they  were  called  to  bear  no 

more 
Than  He,  their  blessed  Master,  bore. 

What  did  He  feel  in  that  last  dread 

cry? 

The  height  and  the  depth  of  agony  ! 
All  the  anguish  a  mortal  can, 
Wlio  dies  forsaken  of  God  and  man  ! 

Is  there  no  way  to  Him  at  last 

But  that  where  his  bleeding  feet  have 

passed  ? 

Did  He  not  to  his  followers  say, 
I  am  the  Life,  the  Light,  the  Way  ? 

Yea,  and  still  from  the  heavens  He  saith 
The  gate  of  life  is  the  gate  of  death  ; 
Peace  is  the  crown  of  faith*  s  good  fight , 
And  the  way  of  the  cross  is  the  way  of 
light! 


HYMN. 

COME  down,  O  Lord,  and  with  us  live  ! 

For  here  with  tender,  earnest  call, 
The  gospel  thou  didst  freely  give, 

We  freely  offer  unto  all. 

Come,    with    such    power  and    saving 
grace, 

That  we  shall  cry,  with  one  accord, 
"  How  sweet  and  awful  is  this  place,  — 

This  sacred  temple  of  the  Lord." 

Let  friend  and  stranger,  one  in  thee, 
Feel  with  such  power  thy  Spirit  move, 


That  every  man's  own  speech  shall  be, 
The  sweet  eternal  speech  of  love. 

Yea,  fill  us  with  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Let  burning  hearts   and  tongues  be 
given, 

Make  this  a  day  of  Pentecost, 

A  foretaste  of  the  bliss  of  heaven  ! 


OF   ONE   FLESH. 

A  MAN  he  was  who  loved  the  good, 
Yet  strayed  in  crooked  ways  apart ; 

He  could  not  do  the  thing  he  would, 
Because  of  evil  in  his  heart. 

He  saw  men  garner  wealth  and  fame, 
Ripe  in  due  time,  a  precious  load  ; 

He  fainted  ere  the  harvest  came, 
And  failed  to  gather  what  he  sowed. 

He  looked  if  haply  grapes  had  grown 
On  the  wild  thorns  that   choked  his 
vines  ; 

When  clear  the  truth  before  him  shone 
He  sought  for  wonders  and  for  signs. 

Others  Faith's  sheltered  harbor  found 
The  while  his  bark  was  tossed  about 

Drifting  and  dragging  anchor  round 
The  troubled,  shoreless  sea  of  doubt. 

Where   he  would  win,   he    could   not 
choose 

But  yield  to  weakness  and  despair  ; 
He  ran  as  they  who  fear  to  lose, 

And  fought  as  one  who  beats  the  air. 

Walking   where   hosts    of    souls   have 

passed, 
By  faith  and  hope  made  strong  and 

brave, 

He,  groping,  stumbled  at  the  last, 
And  blindly  fell  across  the  grave. 

Yet  speak  of  him  in  charity, 

O  man  !  nor  write  of  blame  one  line ; 
Say  that  thou  wert  not  such  as  he  — 

He  was  thy  brother,  and  was  mine  ! 


TEACH   US   TO   WAIT! 

WHY  are  we  so  impatient  of  delay, 
Longing  forever  for  the  time  to  be  ? 


2Q2 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


For  thus  we  live  to-morrow  in  to-day, 
Yea,  sad  to-morrows  we  may  never 
see. 

We  are  too  hasty  ;  are  not  reconciled 
To    let   kind    Nature    do    her  work 

alone  : 
•We  plant  our  seed,  and  like  a  foolish 

child 
We  dig  it  up  to  see  if  it  has  grown. 

The  good  that  is  to  be  we  covet  now, 
We   cannot  wait  for   the   appointed 

hour; 
Before  the  fruit  is  ripe,  we  shake  the 

bough, 

And  seize  the  bud  that  folds  away 
the  flower. 

When  midnight  darkness  reigns  we  do 

not  see 
That  the  sad  night  is  mother  of  the 

morn  ; 

We  cannot  think  our  own  sharp  agony 
May  be  the  birth -pang  of  a  joy  unborn. 

Into  the  dust  we  see  our  idols  cast, 
And  cry,  that  death   has  triumphed, 

life  is  void  ! 
We  do  not  trust  the  promise,  that  the 

last 
Of  all  our  enemies  shall  be  destroyed  ! 

With  rest   almost    in   sight   the   spirit 

faints, 
And  heart   and  flesh   grow  weary  at 

the  last ; 
Our  feet  would   walk   the    city   of  the 

saints, 
Even  before  the  silent  gate  is  passed. 

Teach  us  to  wait  until   thou  shalt  ap- 
pear- 
To  know  that  all  thy  ways  and  times 

are  just  ; 

Thou  seest  that  we  do  believe,  and  fear, 
Lord,  make  us  also  to  believe  and 
trust ! 


IN  HIS   ARMS. 

IF  when  thy  children,  O  my  friend, 
Were  clasped  by  thee,  in  love's  em- 
brace, 

Their  guardian  angels,  that  in  heaven 
Always  behold  the  Father's  face  ; 


Thine  earthly  home,  on  shining  wings, 
Had  entered,  as  of  old  they  came, 

To  grant  to  these  whatever  good, 

Thou     shouldst     desire,     in    Jesus' 
name ;  — 

Or  as  the  loving  sinner  came, 

And    worshiped    when    He    sat    at 

meat, 
Couldst    thou,    thyself    have    come    to 

Him, 
And  bowed  thy  forehead  to  his  feet ; 

And  prayed  Him  by  that  tender  love, 
He  feels  for  those  to  whom  He  came, 

To  give  to  thy  beloved  ones, 

The    best    thou    couldst    desire    or 
name  ;  — 

What   couldst  thou   ask    so    great    as 

this, 

Out  of  his  love's  rich  treasury, 
That    He    should    take    them    in    his 

arms, 

And  bless,  and  keep  them  safe  for 
thee? 

Ah !    favored    friend,    nor    faith,    nor 

prayers, 

Nor  richest  offering  ever  brought 
A  token  of  the  Saviour's  love 

So  sweet,  as   thou  hast  gained  un- 
sought ! 


THE  heart  is  not  satisfied  : 
For  more  than  the  world  can  give  it 

pleads ; 

It  has  infinite  wants  and  infinite  needs  ; 
And  its  every  beat  is  an  awful  cry 
For   love   that   never  can   change   nor 

die; 
The  heart  is  not  satisfied  ! 


UNBELIEF. 

FAITHLESS,  perverse,  and  blind, 
We  sit  in  our  house  of  fear, 

When  the  winter  of   sorrow  comes   to 

our  souls, 
And  the  days  of  our  life  are  drear. 

For  when  in  darkness  and  clouds 
The  way  of  God  is  concealed, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


293 


We  doubt  the  words  of  his  promises, 
And  the  glory  to  be  revealed. 

We  do  but  trust  in  part ; 

We  grope  in  the  dark  alone  , 
Lord,  when  shall  we  see  thee  as  thou 
art, 

And  know  as  we  are  known  ? 

When  shall  we  live  to  thee 

And  die  to  thee,  resigned, 
Nor  fear  to  hide  what  we  would  keep, 

And  lose  what  we  would  find  ? 

For  we  doubt  our  Father's  care, 
We  cover  our  faces  and  cry, 

If  a  little  cloud,  like  the  hand  of  a  man, 
Darkens  the  face  of  our  sky. 

We  judge  of  his  perfect  day 

By  our  life's  poor  glimmering  spark  ; 
And  measure  eternity's  circle 

By  the  segment  of  an  arc. 

We  say,  they  have  taken  our  Lord, 
And  we  know  not  where  He  lies, 

When    the    light    of    his    resurrection 

morn 
Is  breaking  out  of  the  skies. 

And  we  stumble  at  last  when  we  come 
On  the  brink  of  the  grave  to  stand  ; 

As  if  the  souls  that  are  born  of  his  love 
Could  slip  their  Father's  hand  ? 


THE  VISION   ON   THE  MOUNT. 

OH,   if  this  living  soul,  that  many  a 

time 
Above  the  low  things  of  the  earth  doth 

climb, 

Up  to  the  mountain-top  of  faith  sublime, 
If  she  could  only  stay 
In  that  high  place  alway, 
And  hear,  in  reverence  bowed, 
God's  voice  behind  the  cloud  : 

Or  if  descending  to  the  earth  again 
Its  lesson  in  the  heart  might   still   re- 
main ; 
If  we  could  keep  the  vision,  clear  and 

plain, 

Nor  let  one  jot  escape, 
So  that  we  still  might  shape 
Our  lives  to  deeds  sublime 
By  that  exalted  time  : 


Ah  !  what  a  world  were  ours  to  journey 

through  ! 
What    deeds  of    love  and    mercy  we 

should  do  : 

Making  our  lives  so  beautiful  and  true, 
That  in  our  face  would  shine 
The  light  of  love  divine, 
Showing  that  we  had  stood 
Upon  the  mount  of  God. 

But  earthy  of  the  earth,  we  downward 

tend, 
From  the  pure  height  of  faith  our  feet 

descend, 

The  hour  of  exaltation  hath  its  end. 
And  we,  alas  !  forget, 
In  life's  turmoil  and  fret, 
The  pattern  to  us  shown, 
When  on  the  mount  alone. 

Yea,   we  forget  the  rapture    we    nad 

known, 
Forget    the    voice    that   talked   to    us 

alone, 
Forget  the  brightness   past,  the   cloud 

that  shone  ; 

We  have  no  need  to  veil 
Our  faces,  dim  and  pale, 
So  soon  from  out  them  dies 
The  sweet  light  of  the  skies. 

We  come  down  from  the  height  where 

we  have  been, 
And    build    our    tabernacles    low  and 

mean, 

Not  by  the  pattern  in  the  vision  seen 
Remembering  no  more, 
When  once  the  hour  is  o'er, 
How  in   the  safe   cleft  of  the  rock  on 

high, 

The  shadow  of  the  Lord  has  passed  us 
by. 


A  CANTICLE. 

BE  with  me,  O   Lord,  when  my  life 

hath  increase 

Of    the   riches    that  make    it    com- 
plete ; 
When,  favored,  I  walk  in  the  pathway 

of  peace, 
That    is    pleasant   and    safe   to    the 

feet  : 
Be  with  me  and  keep  me,  when  all  the 

day  long 
Delight  hath  no  taint  of  alloy  ; 


294 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


When    my    heart    runneth    over  with 

laughter  and  song, 
And  my  cup  with  the  fullness  of  joy. 

Be  with  me,  O  Lord,  when  I  make  my 

complaint 

Because  of  my  sorrow  and  care  ; 
Take  the  weight  from  my  soul,  that  is 

ready  to  faint, 

And  give  me  thy  burden  to  bear. 
If  the  sun  of  the  desert  at  noontide,  in 

wrath 

Descends  on  my  shelterless  head, 
Be  thou  the  cool  shadow  and  rock  in 

the  path 
Of  a  land  that  is  weary  to  tread. 

In  the  season  of  sorest  affliction  and 

dread, 
When  my  soul  is  encompassed  with 

fears, 
Till  I  lie  in  the  darkness  awake  on  my 

bed, 

And  water  my  pillow  with  tears  ; 
When  lonely  and  sick,  for  the  tender 

delight 

Of  thy  comforting  presence  I  pray, 
Come  into  my  chamber,  O  Lord,  in  the 

night, 
And  stay  till  the  break  of  the  day. 

Through  the  devious  paths  of  the  world 

be  my  guide, 

Till  its  trials  and  its  dangers  are  past; 
If  I  walk  through  the  furnace,  be  thou 

by  my  side, 

Be  my  rod  and  my  staff  to  the  last. 
When  my  crudest   enemy   presses   me 

hard 

To  my  last  earthly  refuge  and  rest  — 
Put  thy  arms  underneath  and  about  me, 

O  Lord, 
Let  me  lie  tenderly  on  thy  breast. 

Come  down  when  in  silence  I  slumber 

alone, 
When  the  death  seal  is  set  on  mine 

eyes  ; 
Break  open  the  sepulchre,  roll  off  the 

stone, 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  skies. 
Lord,  lay  me  to  rest  by  the  river,  that 

bright 
From  the  throne  of  thy  glory   doth 

flow; 
Where  the  odorous  beds  of  the  lilies 

are  white 
And  the  roses  of  paradise  blow  ! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HEART  AND 
FLESH. 

WHEN  her  mind  was  sore  bewildered, 

And  her  feet  were  gone  astray, 
When  she  saw  no  fiery  column, 

And  no  cloud  before  her  way,  — 
Then,  with  earnest  supplication, 

To  the  mighty  One  she  prayed, 
"  Thou  for  whom  we  were  created, 

And     by    whom     the    worlds    were 

made,  — 
By  thy  pity  for  our  weakness, 

By  thy  wisdom  and  thy  might, 
Son  of  God,  Divine  Redeemer  ! 

Guide  and  keep  me  in  the  right ! " 

When  Faith  had  broke  her  moorings, 

And  upon  a  sea  of  doubt, 
Her  soul  with  fear  and  darkness 

Was  encompassed  round  about ; 
Then  she  said,  "  O  Elder  Brother ! 

By  thy  human  nature,  when 
Thou  wert  made  to  be  in  all  things 

Like  unto  the  sons  of  men  ; 
By  the  hour  of  thy  temptation, 

By  thy  one  forsaken  cry, 
Son  of  God  and  man  !  have  mercy, 

Send  thy  light  down  from  on  high  !  " 

When  her  very  heart  was  broken, 

Bearing  more  than  it  could  bear, 
Then  she  clasped  her  anguish,  crying, 

In  her  passionate  despair,  — 
"  Thou  who  wert  beloved  of  women, 

And  who  gav'st  them  love  again, 
By  the  strength  of  thine  affection, 

By  its  rapture  and  its  pain, 
Son  of  God  and  Son  of  woman  ! 

Lo  !  't  is  now  the  eventide  ! 
Come  from  heaven,  O  sacred  lover  ! 

With  thine  handmaid  to  abide  ; 
Come  down  as  the  bridegroom  cometh 

From  his  chamber  to  the  bride  !  " 


OUR    PATTERN. 

A  WEAVER  sat  one  day  at  his  loom, 

Among  the  colors  bright, 
With  the  pattern  for  his  copying 

Hung  fair  and  plain  in  sight. 

But   the  weaver's  thoughts  were  wan* 

dering 
Away  on  a  distant  track, 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


295 


As  he  threw  the  shuttle  in  his  hand 
Wearily  forward  and  back. 

And    he   turned    his   dim   eyes   to  the 

ground, 

And  tears  fell  on  the  woof, 
For  Kis  thoughts,  alas !  were  not  with 

his  home, 
Nor  the  wife  beneath  its  roof ; 

When  her  voice  recalled  him  suddenly 
To  himself,  as  she  sadly  said  : 

"  Ah !    woe  is   me !    for  your  work   is 

spoiled, 
And  what  will  we  do  for  bread  ?  " 

And  then  the  weaver  looked,  and  saw 

His  work  must  be  undone  ; 
For  the  threads  were  wrong,  and  the 
colors  dimmed, 

Where  the  bitter  tears  had  run. 

"  Alack,  alack  !  "  said  the  weaver, 
"  And  this  had  all  been  right 

If  I  had  not  looked  at  my  work,  but 

kept 
The  pattern  in  my  sight !  " 

Ah  !  sad  it  was  for  the  weaver, 
And  sad  for  his  luckless  wife: 

And  sad  will  it  be  for  us,  if  we  say, 
At  the  end  of  our  task  of  life  : 


"  The  colors  that  we  had  to  weave 
Were  bright  in  our  early  years  : 

But  we   wove   the   tissue  wrong, 

stained 
The  woof  with  bitter  tears. 


and 


"  We  wove  a  web  of  doubt  and  fear  — 
Not  faith,  and  hope,  and  love  — 

Because  we  looked  at  our  work,  and  not 
At  our  Pattern  up  above  !  " 


THE   EARTHLY   HOUSE. 

"Ye  are   the  temple  of  God If  any 

man  defile  the  temple  of  God,  him  will  God  de- 
stroy ;  for  the  temple  of  God  is  holy-"  —  i  COR- 
INTHIANS iii.  16,  17. 

ONCE — in  the  ages  that  have  passed 

away, 
Since  the  fair  morning  of  that  fairest 

day, 


Near  her  Creator,  and  He  called  her 

good  — 
He  who  had  weighed  the  planets  in  his 

hand, 
And  dropped  them  in  the  places  where 

they  stand, 

Builded  a  little  temple  white  and  fair, 
And  of  a  workmanship  so  fine  and  rare 
Even  the  star  that  led  to  Bethlehem 
Had   not   the  value  of  this  wondrous 

gem. 

Then,  that  its  strength  and  beauty  might 

endure, 
He  placed  within,  to  keep  it  clean  and 

pure, 

A  living  human  soul.     To  him  He  said: 
"This  is  the  temple  which  my  hands 

have  made 
To   be   thy  dwelling-place,  or  foul   or 

fair, 
As  thou  shalt   make  it   by  neglect  or 

care. 
Mar    or   deface    this    temple's   sacred 

wall, 
And  swift  destruction  on  the  work  shall 

fall  : 

Preserve  it  perfect  in  its  purity, 
And  God  Himself  shall  come  and  dwell 

with  thee ! " 

Then  he  for  whom  that  holy  place  was 

built, 
Fair    as    a    palace  —  ah,    what    fearful 

guilt !  — 

Grew,  after  tending  it  a  little  while, 
Careless,  then  reckless,  and  then  wholly 

vile. 
The  evil  spirits  came  and  dwelt  with 

him  ; 
The   walls  decayed,   and   through   the 

windows  dim 
He  saw  not  this  world's  beauty  any 

more, 
Heard  no  good  angel  knocking  at  his 

door; 
And  all  his  house,  because  of  sin  and 

crime, 
Tumbled  and  fell  in  ruin  ere  its  time. 

Oh,  men  and  brethren !    we  who  live 

to-day 
In    dwellings    made    by   God,  though 

made  of  clay, 
Have   these    our   mortal    bodies    ever 

been 


When  earth,  in  all  her  innocent  beauty,     Kept  fit  for  Him  who  made  them  pure 


stood 


and  clean ; 


296 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Or  was  that  soul  in  evil  sunk  so  deep, 
He  spoiled  the  temple  he  was  set  to 

keep, 
And    turned    to   wastefulness    and    to 

abuse 
The  tastes  and  passions  that  were  meant 

for  use  ; 
So  like  ourselves,  that  we,  afraid,  might 

cry  : 
"  Lord,  who  destroyest  the  temple  —  is 

it  I  ? " 


YE   DID   IT   UNTO   ME. 

SINNER,  careless,  proud,  and  cold, 
Straying  from  the  sheltering  fold, 
Hast  thou  thought  how  patiently 
The  Good  Shepherd  follows  thee  ; 
Still  with  tireless,  toiling  feet, 
Through  the  tempest  and  the  heat  — 
Thought  upon  that  yearning  breast, 
Where  He  fain  would  have  thee  rest, 
And  of  all  its  tender  pain, 
While  He  seeks  for  thee  in  vain  ? 

Dost  thou  know  what  He  must  feel, 
Making  vainly  his  appeal : 
When  He  knocketh  at  thy  door 
Present  entrance  to  implore  ; 
Saying,  "  Open  unto  Me, 
I  will  come  and  sup  with  thee  "  — 
Forced  to  turn  away  at  last 
From  the  portal  shut  and  fast  ? 
Wilt  thou  careless  slumber  on, 
Even  till  thy  Lord  has  gone, 
Heedless  of  his  high  behest, 
His  desire  to  be  thy  guest  ? 

Sinner,  sinner,  dost  thou  know 
What  it  is  to  slight  Him  so  ? 
Sitting  careless  by  the  sea 
While  He  calleth,  "Follow  me" ; 
Sleeping,  thoughtless,  unaware 
Of  his  agonizing  prayer, 
While  thy  sins  his  soul  o'erpower, 
And  thou  canst  not  watch  one  hour  ? 
Our  infirmities  He  bore, 
And  our  mortal  form  He  wore  ; 
Yea,  our  Lord  was  made  to  be 
Here  in  all  things  like  as  we, 
And,  that  pardon  we  might  win, 
He,  the  sinless,  bare  our  sin  ! 

Sinner,  though  He  comes  no  more 
Faint  and  fasting  to  thy  door, 
His  disciples  here  instead 


Thou  canst  give  the  cup  and  bread. 
If  his  lambs  thou  dost  not  feed, 
He  it  is  that  feels  their  need  : 
He  that  suffers  their  distress, 
Hunger,  thirst,  and  weariness  : 
He  that  loving  them  again 
Beareth  all  their  bitter  pain  ! 
Canst  thou  then  so  reckless  prove, 
Canst    thou,    darest    thou    slight    his 
love  ? 

Do  not,  sinner,  for  thy  sake 
Make  Him  still  the  cross  to  take, 
And  ascend  again  for  thee 
Dark  and  dreadful  Calvary  ! 
Do  not  set  the  crown  of  pain 
On  that  sacred  head  again  ; 
Opened  all  afresh  and  wide 
Closed  wounds  in  hands  and  side. 
Do  not,  do  not  scorn  his  name 
Putting  Him  to  open  shame  ! 

Oh,  by  all  the  love  He  knew, 
For  his  followers,  dear  and  true  ; 
By  the  sacred  tears  He  wept 
At  the  tomb  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
By  Gethsemane's  bitter  cry, 
That  the  cup  might  pass  Him  by  ; 
By  that  wail  of  agony, 
Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? 
By  that  last  and  heaviest  stroke, 
When  his  heart  for  sinners  broke, 
Do  not  let  Him  lose  the  price 
Of  his  awful  sacrifice  ! 


THE  SINNER  AT  THE  CROSS. 

HELPLESS  before  the  cross  I  lay, 
With  all  to  lose,  or  all  to  win, 

My  steps  had  wandered  from  the  wayy 
My  soul  was  burdened  with  her  sin ; 

I  spoke  no  word,  I  made  no  plea, 

But  this,  Be  merciful  to  me  ! 

To  meet  his  gaze,  I  could  not  brook, 
Who  for  my  sake  ascended  there  ; 

I  could  not  bear  the  angry  look 
My  dear  offended  Lord  must  wear  ; 

Remembering  how  I  had  denied 

His  name,  my  heart  within  me  died. 

Almost  I  heard  his  awful  voice, 

Sounding  above  my  head  in  wrath  ; 

Fixing  my  everlasting  choice 

With   such   as  tread  the  downward 
path  ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


297 


I  waited  for  the  words,  Depart 
From  ?ne,  accursed  as  thou  art  / 

One  moment,  all  the  world  was  stilled, 
Then,  He  who  saw  my  anguish, 
spoke  ; 

I  heard,  I  breathed,  my  pulses  thrilled, 
And  heart,  and  brain,  and  soul  awoke  ; 

No  scorn,  no  wrath  was  in  that  tone, 

But  pitying  love,  and  love  alone  ! 

"  And  dost   thou  know,  and   love  not 

me," 
He  said,    "  when  I  have  loved  thee 

so ; 
It  was  for  guilty  men  like  thee 

I  came  into  this  world  of  woe  ; 
To  save  the  lost  I  lived  and  died, 
For  sinners  was  I  crucified." 

The  fountain  of  my  tears  was  dried, 
My  eyes  were  lifted  from  the  dust  : 

"  Jesus  !  my  blessed  Lord  !  I  cried, 
And  is  it  thou,  I  feared  to  trust  ? 

And  art  thou  He,  I  deemed  my  foe  ; 

The  Friend  to  whom  I  dared  not  go  ? 

"  How  could   I  shrink  from  such   as 
thou, 

Divine  Redeemer,  as  thou  art ! 
I  know  thy  loving  kindness  now, 

I  see  thy  wounded,  bleeding  heart ; 
I  know  that  thou  didst  give  me  thine, 
And  all  that  thou  dost  ask  is  mine  ! 

"  My  Lord,  my  God  !  I  know  at  last 
Whose  mercy  I  have  dared  offend  ; 

I  own  thee  now,  I  hold  thee  fast, 
My  Brother,  Lover,  and  my  Friend  ! 

Take  me  and  clasp  me  to  thy  breast, 

Bless  me  again,  and  keep  me  blest  ! 

"  Thou  art  the  man,  who  ne'er  refused 
With  sinful  men  to  sit  at  meat ; 

Who  spake  to  her  who  was  accused 
Of  men,  and  trembling  at  thy  feet, 

As  lips  had  never  spoke  before, 

Go  uncondemned,  and  sin  no  more. 

"  Dear  Lord  !  not  all  eternity 

Thy  image  from  my  heart  can  move, 
When  thou   didst   turn    and    look   on 

me, 
When    first    I   heard   thy   words    of 

love  ; 

Repent,  believe,  and  thou  shalt  be, 
To-night  in  Paradise  with  me." 


THE  HEIR. 

AN  orphan,  through  the  world 

Unfriended  did  I  roam, 
I  knew  not  that  my  Father  lived, 

Nor  that  I  had  a  home. 

No  kindred  might  I  claim, 

No  lover  sought  for  me ; 
Mine  was  a  solitary  life, 

Set  in  no  family. 

I  yielded  to  despair, 

I  sorrowed  night  and  morn  — 
I  cried,  "  Ah  !  good  it  were  for  me, 

If  I  had  not  been  born  !  " 

At  midnight  came  a  man  — 
He  knocked  upon  my  door  ; 

He  spake  such  tender  words  as  man 
Ne'er  spake  to  me  before. 

I  rose  to  let  him  in, 

I  shook  with  fear  and  dread  ; 
A  lamp  was  shining  in  his  hand, 

A  brightness  round  his  head. 

"  And  who  art  thou,"  I  cried  ; 

"  I  scarce  for  awe  might  speak  ; 
And  why  for  such  a  wretch  as  I 

Dost  thou  at  midnight  seek  ? " 

"Though    thou    hast    strayed,"    He 
said, 

"  From  me  thou  couldst  not  flee  ; 
I  am  thy  Brother  and  thy  Friend, 

And  thou  shalt  share  with  me  ! 

"  For  me  thou  hast  not  sought, 

I  sought  thee  everywhere; 
Thou  hast  a  Father  and  a  home, 

With  mansions  grand  and  fair. 

"  To  thine  inheritance 

I  came  thy  soul  to  bring  ; 
Thou  art  the  royal  heir  of  heaven  — 

The  daughter  of  the  King  !  " 


REALITIES. 

THINGS  that  I  have  to  hold  and  keep, 

ah  !  these 

Are  not  the   treasures   to   my  heart 
most  dear ; 


298 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE  GARY. 


Though  many  sweet  and  precious  prom- 
ises 

Have  had  their  sweet  fulfillment,  even 
here. 

And   yet  to   others,  what   I  name   my 

own 
Poor    unrealities    and   shows    might 

seem  ; 

Since  my  best  house  hath  no  founda- 
tion-stone, 
My  tenderest  lover  is  a  tender  dream. 

And  would  you  learn  who  leads  me,  if 

below' 

I  choose  the  good  or  from  the  ill  for- 
bear ? 

A  little  child  He  suffered  long  ago 
To  come  unto  his  arms,  and  keeps  her 
there  ! 

The  alms  I  give  the  beggar  at  my  gate 
I  do  but  lend  to  One  who  thrice  re- 
pays ; 

The  only  heavenly  bread  I  ever  ate 
Came  back  to  find  me,  after  many 
days. 

The  single  friend  whose  presence  can- 
not fail, 

Whose  face  I  always  see  without  dis- 
guise, 
Went  down  into  the  grave  and  left  the 

veil 

Of  mortal  flesh  that  hid  her  from  my 
eyes  ! 

My  clearest  way  is  that  which  faith  hath 

shown, 
Not  that  in  which  by  sight  I  daily 

move  ; 
And  the  most  precious  thing  my  soul 

hath  known 

Is    that    which    passeth   knowledge, 
God's  dear  love. 


HYMN. 

WHEN  the  world  no  solace  gives, 

When  in  deep  distress  I  groan  ; 
When  my  lover  and  my  friend 

Leave  me  with  my  grief  alone  j 
When  a  weary  land  I  tread, 

Fainting  for  the  rocks  and  springs, 
Overshadow  me,  O  Lord, 

With  the  comfort  of  thy  wings  ! 


When  my  heart  and  flesh  shall  fail, 

When  I  yield  my  mortal  breath, 
When  I  gather  up  my  feet, 

Icy  with  the  chill  of  death  ; 
Strengthen  and  sustain  me,  Lord, 

With  thine  all-sufficient  grace  : 
Overlean  my  dying  bed 

With  the  sweetness  of  thy  face  ! 

When  the  pang,  the  strife  is  past, 

When  my  spirit  mounts  on  high, 
Catch  me  up  in  thine  embrace, 

In  thy  bosom  let  me  lie  ! 
Freed  from  sin  and  freed  from  death, 

Hid  with  thee,  in  heaven  above, 
Oversplendor  me,  O  God, 

With  the  glory  of  thy  love. 


WOUNDED. 

O  MEN  with  wounded  souls, 
O  women  with  broken  hearts, 

That  have  suffered  since  ever  the  world 

was  made, 
And  nobly  borne  your  parts  ; 

Suffered  and  borne  as  well 

As  the  martyrs  whom  we  name, 

That  went  rejoicing  home,  through  flood, 
Or  singing  through  the  flame  ; 

Ye  have  had  of  Him  reward 

For  your  battles  fought  and  won, 

Who  giveth  his  beloved  rest 
When  the  day  of  their  work  is  done. 

Ye  have  changed  for  perfect  peace 
The  pain  of  the  ways  ye  trod  ; 

And  laid  your  burdens  softly  down, 
At  the  merciful  feet  of  God ! 


A  CRY  OF  THE  HEART. 

OH,  for  a  mind  more  clear  to  see, 
A  hand  to  work  more  earnestly 

For  every  good  intent ; 
Oh,  for  a  Peter's  fiery  zeal, 
His  conscience  always  quick  to  feel, 

And  instant  to  repent ! 

Oh,  for  a  faith  more  strong  and  true 
Than    that    which     doubting    Thomas 

knew, 
A  faith  assured  and  clear ; 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  AND  HYMNS. 


299 


To  know  that  He  who  for  us  died, 
Rejected,  scorned,  and  crucified, 
Lives,  and  is  with  us  here. 

Oh,  for  the  blessing  shed  upon 
That  humble,  loving,  sinful  one, 

Who,  when  He  sat  at  meat, 
With  precious  store  of  ointment  came  ; 
Hid  from  her  Lord  her  face  for  shame, 

And  laid  it  on  his  feet. 

Oh,  for  that  look  of  pity  seen  * 
By  her,  the  guilty  Magdalene, 

Who  stood  her  Judge  before  ; 
And  listening,  for  her  comfort  heard, 
The  tender,  sweet,  forgiving  word  :  — 

Go  thou,  and  sin  no  more  ! 

Oh,  to    have    stood   with  James   and 

John, 
Where   brightness   round   the   Saviour 

shone, 

Whiter  than  light  of  day  ; 
When   by   the    voice    and    cloud    dis- 
mayed, 

They  fell  upon  the  ground  afraid, 
And  wist  not  what  to  say. 


Oh,  to  have  been  the  favored  guest, 
That  leaned  at  supper  on  his  breast, 

And  heard  his  dear  Lord  say  : 
He  who  shall  testify  of  Me, 
The  Comforter,  ye  may  not  see 

Except  I  go  away. 

Oh,  for  the  honor  won  by  her, 
Who  early  to  the  sepulchre 

Hastened  in  tearful  gloom  ; 
To  whom  He  gave  his  high  behest, 
To  tell  to  Peter  and  the  rest, 

Their  Lord  had  left  the  tomb. 

Oh,  for  the  vision  that  sufficed 
That  first  blest  martyr  after  Christ, 

And  gave  a  peace   so  deep, 
That  while  he  saw  with  raptured  eyes 
Jesus  with  God  in  Paradise, 

He,  praying,  fell  asleep. 

But  if  such  heights  I  may  not  gain, 
O  thou,  to  whom  no  soul  in  vain 

Or  cries  or  makes  complaints  ; 
This  only  favor  grant  to  me,  — 
That  I,  of  sinners  chief,  may  be 

The  least  of  all  thy  saints  ! 


POEMS 


OF 


GRIEF   AND    CONSOLATION. 


EARTH  TO  EARTH. 

His  hands  with  earthly  work  are  done, 
His  feet  are  done  with  roving  ; 

We  bring  him  now  to  thee  and  ask, 
The  loved  to  take  the  loving. 

Part  back  thy  mantle,  fringed  with  green, 
Broidered  with  leaf  and  blossom, 

And  lay  him  tenderly  to  sleep, 
Dear  Earth,  upon  thy  bosom. 

Thy  cheerful  birds,  thy  liberal  flowers, 

Thy  woods  and  waters  only 
Gave  him  their  sweet  companionship 

And  made  his  hours  less  lonely. 

Though  friendship  never  blest  his  way, 
And  love  denied  her  blisses  ; 

No  flower  concealed  her  face  from  him, 
No  wind  withheld  her  kisses. 

Nor  man  hath  sighed,  nor  woman  wept 
To  go  their  ways  without  him ; 

So,  lying  here,  he  still  will  have 
His  truest  friends  about  him. 

Then    part    thy   mantle,   fringed   with 
green, 

Broidered  with  leaf  and  blossom, 
And  lay  him  tenderly  to  sleep, 

Dear  Earth,  upon  thy  bosom  ! 


THE  UNHONORED. 

ALAS,  alas  !  how  many  sighs 

Are  breathed  for  his  sad  fate,  who  dies 

With  triumph  dawning  on  his  eyes. 

What  thousands  for  the  soldier  weep, 
From  his  first  battle  gone  to  sleep 
That  slumber  which  is  long  and  deep. 


But  who  about  his  fate  can  tell, 
Who  struggled  manfully  and  well ; 
Yet  fainted  on  the  march,  and  fell  ? 

Or  who  above  his  rest  makes  moan, 
Who  dies  in  the  sick-tent  alone  — 
"  Only  a  private,  name  unknown  ! " 

What  tears  down  Pity's  cheek  have  run 

For  poets  singing  in  the  sun, 

Stopped  suddenly,  their  song  half  done. 

But  for  the  hosts  of  souls  below, 
Who  to  eternal  silence  go, 
Hiding  their  great  unspoken  woe  ; 

Who  sees  amid  their  ranks  go  down, 

Heroes,  that  never  won  renown, 

And  martyrs,  with  no  martyr's  crown  ? 

Unrecognized,  a  poet  slips 

Into  death's  total,  long  eclipse, 

With  breaking  heart,  and  wordless  lips  ; 

And  never  any  brother  true 

Utters  the  praise  that  was  his  due  — 

"  This  man  was  greater  than  he  knew  !  " 

No  maiden  by  his  grave  appears, 
Crying  out  in  long  after  years, 
"  I  would  have  loved  him,"  through  her 
tears. 

We  weep  for  her,  untimely  dead, 
Who  would  have  pressed  the  marriage- 
bed, 
Yet  to  death's  chamber  went  instead. 

But  who  deplores  the  sadder  fate, 
Of  her  who  finds  no  mortal  mate, 
And  lives  and  dies  most  desolate  ? 

Alas  !  't  is  sorrowful  to  know 

That  she  who  finds  least  love  below, 

Finds  least  pity  for  her  woe. 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION. 


301 


Hard  is  her  fate  who  feels  life  past, 
"When  loving  hands  still  hold  her  fast, 
And  loving  eyes  watch  to  the  last. 

But  she,  whose  lids  no  kisses  prest, 
Who   crossed   her  own   hands   on   her 

breast, 
And  went  to  her  eternal  rest ; 

She  had  so  sad  a  lot  below, 

That  her  unutterable  woe 

Only  the  pitying  God  can  know  ! 

When  little  hands  are  dropped  away 
From  the  warm  bosom  where  they  lay, 
And  the  poor  mother  holds  but  clay ; 

What  human  lip  that  does  not  moan, 
What  heart  that  does  not  inly  groan, 
And  make  such  suffering  its  own  ? 

Yet,  sitting  mute  in  their  despair, 
With  their  unnoticed  griefs  to  bear, 
Are  childless  women  everywhere  ; 

Who  never  knew,  nor  understood, 
That  which  is  woman's  greatest  good, 
The  sacredness  of  motherhood. 

But  putting  down  their  hopes  and  fears, 
Claiming  no  pity  and  no  tears, 
They  live  the  measure  of  their  years. 

They  see  age  stealing  on  apace, 

And  put  the  gray  hairs  from  their  face, 

No  children's  fingers  shall  displace  ! 

Though  grief   hath   many  a  form   and 

show, 

I  think  that  unloved  women  know 
The  very  bottom  of  life's  woe  ! 

And  that  the  God  who  pitying  sees, 
Hath  yet  a  recompense  for  these, 
Kept  in  the  long  eternities  ! 


JENNIE. 

You  have  sent  me  from  her  tomb 
A  poor  withered  flower  to  keep, 
Broken  off  in  perfect  bloom, 

Such  as  hers,  who  lies  asleep  — 
Underneath  the  roses  lies, 
Hidden  from  your  mortal  eyes, 
Never  from  your  heart  concealed, 
Always  to  your  soul  revealed. 


Oh,  to  think,  as  day  and  night 

Come  and  go,  and  go  and  come, 
How  the  smile  which  was  its  light 

Hath  been  darkened  in  your  home  ! 
Oh,  to  think  that  those  dear  eyes, 
Copied  from  the  summer  skies, 
Could  have  veiled  their  heavenly  blue 
From  the  sunshine,  and  from  you  ! 

Oh,  to  have  that  tender  mouth, 
With  its  loveliness  complete, 

Shut  up  in  its  budding  youth 
From  all  kisses,  fond  and  sweet ! 

Fairest  blossom,  red  and  rare, 

Could  not  with  her  lips  compare  ; 

Yea,  her  mouth's  young  beauty  shamed 

All  the  roses  ever  named. 

Why  God  hid  her  from  your  sight, 

Leaving  anguish  in  her  place, 
At  the  noonday  sent  the  night, 

Night  that  almost  hid  his  face, 
Not  to  us  is  fully  shown, 
Not  to  mortals  can  be  known, 
Though  they  strive,  through  tears  and 

doubt, 
Still  to  guess  his  meaning  out. 

Full  of  mystery  't  is,  and  yet 

If  you  clasped  still  those  charms, 
Mother,  might  you  not  forget 

Mothers  who  have  empty  arms  ? 
If  you  satisfied  in  her 

Every  want  and  every  need, 
Could  you  be  a  comforter 

To  the  hearts  that  moan  and  bleed  ? 

Take  this  solace  for  your  woe  : 
God's  love  never  groweth  dim  ; 

All  of  goodness  that  you  know, 
All. your  loving  comes  from  him  ! 

You  say,  "  She  has  gone  to  death  !  " 

Very  tenderly,  God  saith  : 

"  Better  so  ;  I  make  her  mine. 

And  my  love  exceedeth  thine  !  " 


COWPER'S    CONSOLATION.1 

HE  knew  what  mortals  know  when  tried 
By  suffering's  worst  and  last  extreme  ; 

1  The  most  important  events  of  Cowper's  latter 
years  were  audibly  announced  to  him  before  they 
occurred.  We  find  him  writing  of  Mrs.  Unwin's 
"  approaching  and  sudden  death,''  when  her 
health,  although  feeble,  was  not  such  a.s  to  oc- 
casion alarm.  His  lucid  intervals,  and  the  re- 


302 


THE   POEMS   OF  PHCEBE    GARY. 


He  knew  the  ecstacy  allied 

To  bliss  supreme. 

Souls,  hanging  on  his  melody, 

Have  caught  his  rapture  of  belief  ; 
The  heart  of  all  humanity 

Has  felt  his  grief. 

In  sweet  compassion  and  in  love 

Poets  about  his  tomb  have  trod  ; 
And  softly  hung  their  wreaths  above 
The  hallowed  sod. 

His  hymns  of  victory,  clear  and  strong, 

Over  the  hosts  of  sin  and  doubt, 
Still  make  the  Christian's  battle-song, 
And  triumph-shout. 

Tasting  sometimes  his  Father's  grace, 

Yet  for  wise  purposes  allowed 
Seldom  to  see  the  "  smiling  face  " 
Behind  the  cloud ; 

Surely  when  he  was  left  the  prey 

Of  torments  only  Heaven  can  still, 
"  God  moved  in  a  mysterious  way  " 
To  work  his  will. 

Yet  many  a  soul  through  life  has  trod 

Untroubled  o'er  securest  ground, 
Nor  knew  that  "  closer  walk  with  God  " 
His  footsteps  found. 

With  its  great  load  of  grief  to  bear, 
The  reed,  though  bruised,  might  not 

break  ; 

God  did  not  leave  him  to  despair, 
Nor  quite  forsake. 

The  pillow  by  his  tear-drops  wet, 

The   stoniest    couch   that   heard   his 

cries, 
Had  near  a  golden  ladder  set 

That  touched  the  skies. 

And  at  the  morning  on  his  bed, 

And  in  sweet  visions  of  the  night, 
Angels,  descending,  comforted 

His  soul  with  light. 

Standing  upon  the  hither  side, 

How  few  of  all  the  earthly  host 
Have  singled  those  whose  feet   have 
trod 

The  heavenly  coast. 

turn  of  his  disorder,  were  announced,  to  him  in 
the  same  remarkable  manner.  —  Cowper's -<4«- 
dible  Illusions. 


Yet  his  it  was  at  times  to  see, 

In  glimpses  faint  and  half-revealed, 
That  strange  and  awful  mystery 

By  death  concealed. 

And,  as  the  glory  thus  discerned 

His  heart  desired,  with  strong  desire  ; 
By  seraphs  touched,  his  sad  lips  burned 
With  sacred  fire. 

As  ravens  to  Elijah  bare, 

At  morn  and  eve,  the  promised  bread ; 
So  by  the  spirits  of  the  air 

His  soul  was  fed. 

And,  even  as  the  prophet  rose 

Triumphant  on  the  flames  of  love, 
The  fiery  chariot  of  his  woes 

Bore  him  above. 

Oh,  shed  no  tears  for  such  a  lot, 

Nor  deem  he  passed  uncheered,  alone ; 
He  walked  with  God,  and  he  was  not, 
God  took  his  own  ! 


TWICE   SMITTEN. 

O  DOUBLY-BOWED  and  bruised  reed, 
What  can  I  offer  in  thy  need  ? 

O  heart,  twice  broken  with  its  grief, 
What  words  of  mine  can  bring  relief  ? 

0  soul,  o'erwhelmed  with  woe  again, 
How  can  I  soothe  thy  bitter  pain  ? 

Abashed  and  still,  I  stand  and  see 
Thy  sorrow's  awful  majesty. 

Only  dumb  silence  may  convey 
That  which  my  lip  can  never  say. 

1  cannot  comfort  thee  at  all  ; 
On  the  Great  Comforter  I  call ; 

Praying  that  He  may  make  thee  see 
How  near  He  hath  been  drawn  to  thee. 

For  unto  man  the  angel  guest 
Still  comes  through  gates  of  suffering 
best; 

And  most  our  Heavenly  Father  cares 
For  whom  He  smites,  not  whom  He 
spares. 


POEMS  OF  GRIEF  AND   CONSOLATION- 


303 


So,  to  his  chastening  meekly  bow, 
Thou  art  of  his  beloved  now  ! 


BORDER-LAND. 

I  KNOW  you  are  always  by  my  side 
And  I  know  you  love  me,  Winifred 

dear, 
For   I  never  called  on  you   since  you 

died, 

But  you    answered,    tenderly,    I    am 
here! 

So  come  from  the  misty  shadows,  where 
You  came  last  night,  and  the  night 

before, 

Put  back  the  veil  of  your  golden  hair, 
And  let  me  look  in  your  face  once 
more. 

Ah  !  it  is  you  ;  with  that  brow  of  truth, 
Ever  too    pure    for    the    least    dis- 
guise ; 
With  the  same  dear  smile  on  the  loving 

mouth, 

And  the  same  sweet  light  in  the  ten- 
der eyes. 

You  are  my  own,  my  darling  still, 
So  do  not  vanish  or  turn  aside, 

Wait  till  my  eyes  have  had  their  fill,  — 
Wait  till  my  heart  is  pacified  ! 

You  have  left  the  light  of  your  higher 

place, 
And  ever  thoughtful,  and  kind,  and 

good, 

You  come  with  your  old  familiar  face, 
And  not  with  the  look  of  your  angel- 
hood. 

Still  the  touch  of  your  hand  is  soft  and 

light, 
And  your  voice  is  gentle,  and  kind, 

and  low, 

And  the  very  roses  you  wear  to-night, 
You  wore  in  the  summers  long  ago. 

O  world,  you  may  tell  me   I  dream  or 

rave, 
So    long    as    my  darling   comes  to 

prove 
That   the  feet  of  the  spirit   cross  the 

grave, 

And  the  loving  live,  and  the  living 
love  ! 


THE  LAST  BED. 

'T  WAS  a  lonesome  couch  we  came  to 
spread 

For  her,  when  her  little  life  was  o'er, 
And  a  narrower  one  than  any  bed 

Whereon  she  had  ever  slept  before. 

And  we  feared  that  she  could  not  slum- 
ber so, 
As  we  stood  about  her  when  all  was 

done, 
For  the  pillow  seemed  too   hard  and 

low 
For  her  precious  head  to  rest  upon. 

But,  when  we  had  followed  her  two  by 

two, 
And  lowered  her  down  there  where 

she  lies, 

There  was  nothing  left  for  us  to  do, 
But  to  hide   it   all  from  our  tearful 
eyes. 

So  we  softly  and  tenderly  spread  be- 
tween 

Our  face  and  the  face  our  love  regrets, 
A  covering,  woven  of  leafy  green, 

And  spotted  over  with  violets. 


LIGHT. 

WHILE  I  had  mine  eyes,  I  feared ; 

The  heavens  in  wrath  seemed  bowed  ; 
I  look,  and  the  sun  with  a  smile  breaks 
forth, 

And  a  rainbow  spans  the  cloud. 

I  thought  the  winter  was  here, 
That  the  earth  was  cold  and  bare, 

But   I   feel   the   coming   of   birds   and 

flowers, 
And  the  spring-time  in  the  air. 

•I  said  that  all  the  lips 

I  ever  had  kissed  were  dumb  ; 
That  my  dearest  ones  were  dead  and 
gone, 

And  never  a  friend  would  come. 

But  I  hear  a  voice  as  sweet 

As  the  fall  of  summer  showers ; 

And  the  grave  that  yawned  at  my  very 

feet 
Is  filled  to  the  top  with  flowers  ! 


304 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


As  if  't  were  the  midnight  hour, 

I  sat  with  gloom  opprest  ; 
When  a  light  was  breaking  out  of  the 
east, 

And  shining  unto  the  west. 

I  heard  the  angels  call 

Across  from  the  beautiful  shore  ; 
And   I   saw    a   look    in   my    darling's 
eyes, 

That  never  was  there  before. 

Transfigured,  lost  to  me, 

She  had  slipped  from  my  embrace  ; 
Now  lo  !  I  hold  her  fast  once  more, 

With  the  light  of  God  on  her  face  ! 


WAITING  THE  CHANGE. 

I  HAVE  no  moan  to  make, 

No  bitter  tears  to  shed  ; 
No  heart,  that  for  rebellious  grief, 

Will  not  be  comforted. 

There  is  no  friend  of  mine 
Laid  in  the  earth  to  sleep  ; 

No  grave,  or  green  or  heaped  afresh, 
By  which  1  stand  and  weep. 

Though  some,  whose  presence  once 
Sweet  comfort  round  me  shed, 

Here  in  the  body  walk  no  more 
The  way  that  I  must  tread, 

Not  they,  but  what  they  wore 
Went  to  the  house  of  fear  ; 

They  were  the  incorruptible, 
They  left  corruption  here. 

The  veil  of  flesh  that  hid 
Is  softly  drawn  aside  ;       • 


More  clearly  I  behold  them  now 
Than  those  who  never  died. 

Who  died  !  what  means  that  word 
Of  men  so  much  abhorred  ? 

Caught  up  in  clouds  of  heaven  to  be 
Forever  with  the  Lord  ! 

To  give  this  body,  racked 

With  mortal  ills  and  cares, 
For  one  as  glorious  and  as  fair 

As  our  Redeemer  wears  ; 

To  leave  our  shame  and  sin, 

Our  hunger  and  disgrace  ; 
To  come  unto  ourselves,  to  turn 

And  find  our  Father's  face  ; 

To  run,  to  leap,  to  walk, 

To  quit  our  beds  of  pain, 
And  live  where  the  inhabitants 

Are  never  sick  again  ; 

To  sit  no  longer  dumb, 

Nor  halt,  nor  blind  ;  to  rise  — 

To  praise  the  Healer  with  our  tongue, 
And  see  him  with  our  eyes ; 

To  leave  cold  winter  snows, 
And  burning  summer  heats, 

And  walk  in  soft,  white,  tender  light, 
About  the  golden  streets. 

Thank  God  !  for  all  my  loved, 

That  out  of  pain  and  care, 
Have     safely    reached     the     heavenly 
heights, 

And  stay  to  meet  me  there  ! 

Not  these  I  mourn  ;  I  know 
Their  joy  by  faith  sublime  — 

But  for  myself,  that  still  below 
Must  wait  my  appointed  time. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


READY. 

LOADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 

A  boat  shot  into  the  land, 
And  lay  at  the  right  of  Rodman's  Point, 

With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid, 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire, 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 
Of  the  boat ;  and  the  captain  said  : 

"  If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured, 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead  ! " 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 

No  slavish  soul  had  he  ; 
"  Somebody  's  got  to  die,  boys, 

And  it  might  as  well  be  me  !  " 

Firmly  he  rose,  and  fearlessly 

Stepped  out  into  the  tide  ; 
He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 

Then  fell  across  her  side  : 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 

As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free  ;  — 

But  there  was  n't  a  man  of  them  that 

day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he  ! 


DICKENS. 

"ONE  story  more,"  the  whole  world 
cried. 

The  great  magician  smiled  in  doubt : 
''  I  am  so  tired  that,  if  I  tried, 

1  fear  I  could  not  tell  it  out." 

"  But  one  is  all  we  ask,"  they  said  ; 

"  You  surely  cannot  faint  nor  fail." 
Again  he  raised  his  weary  head, 

And  slow  began  the  witching  tale. 


The  fierce  debater's  tongue  grew  mute, 
Wise  men  were  silent  for  his  sake ; 

The  poet  threw  aside  his  lute, 

And    paused    enraptured    while    he 
spake. 

The  proudest  lady  in  the  land 

Forgot  that  praise  and   power  were 

sweet ; 
She  dropped  the  jewels  from  her  hand, 

And  sat  enchanted  at  his  feet. 

Lovers,  with  clasped  hands  lightly  prest, 
Saw  Hope's  sweet  blossoms  bud  and 

bloom  ; 
Men,  hastening  to  their  final  rest, 

Stopped,    half-enraptured    with    the 
tomb. 

Children,  with  locks  of  brown  and  gold, 
Gathered  about  like  flocks  of  birds  ; 

The  poor,  whose  story  he  had  told, 
Drew   near   and    loved   him   fur   his 
words. 

His  eye  burns  bright,  his  voice  is  strong, 
A  waiting  people  eager  stands  ; 

Men  on  the  outskirts  of  the  throng 
Interpret  him  to  distant  lands. 

When  lo  !  his  accents,  faltering,  fall  ; 

The   nations,  awe-struck,  hold  their 

breath  ; 
The  great  magician,  loved  of  all, 

Has  sunk  to  slumber,  tired  to  death  ! 

His  human  eyes  in  blind  eclipse 
Are  from  the  world  forever  sealed  ; 

The  "  mystery  "  trembling  on  his  lips 
Shall  never,  never  be  revealed. 

Yet  who  would  miss  that  tale  half  told, 
Though  weird  and  strange,  or  sweet 

and  true ; 

Who  care  to  listen  to  the  old, 
If  he  could  hear  the  strange  and 
new  ? 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Alas  !  alas  !  it  cannot  be ; 

We  too  must  sleep  and  change  and 

rise, 
To  learn  the  eternal  mystery 

That  dawned  upon  his  waking  eyes  ! 


THADDEUS   STEVENS. 

AN  eye  with  the  piercing  eagle's  fire, 
Not  the  look  of  the  gentle  dove; 

Not  his  the  form  that  men  admire, 
Nor  the  face  that  tender  women  love. 

Working  first  for  his  daily  bread 

With    the    humblest    toilers    of    the 
earth  ; 

Never  walking  with  free,  proud  tread  — 
Crippled  and  halting  from  his  birth 

Wearing  outside  a  thorny  suit 

Of  sharp,  sarcastic,  stinging  power ; 

Sweet  at  the  core  as  sweetest  fruit, 
Or  inmost  heart  of  fragrant  flower. 

Fierce  and  trenchant,  the  haughty  foe 
Felt  his  words  like  a  sword  of  flame ; 

But  to  the  humble,  poor,  and  low 
Soft  as  a  woman's  his  accents  came. 

Not  his  the  closest,  tenderest  friend  — 
No  children  blessed  his  lonely  way, 

But  down  in  his  heart  until  the  end 
The  tender  dream  of  his  boyhood  lay. 

His  mother's  faith  he  held  not  fast ; 

But  he  loved  her  living,  mourned  her 

dead, 
And  he  kept  her  memory  to  the  last 

As  green  as  the  sod  above  her  bed. 

He  held  as  sacred  in  his  home 

Whatever    things    she    wrought    or 

planned, 

And  never  suffered  change  to  come 
To    the   work   of    her    "  industrious 
hand." 

For  her  who  pillowed  first  his  head 
He  heaped  with  a  wealth    of  flowers 

the  grave, 
While  he  chose  to  sleep  in  an  unmarked 

bed, 

By  his  Master's  humblest  poor  —  the 
slave.1 

1  Thaddeus  Stevens,  who  cared  nothing  about 


Suppose  he  swerved  from  the  straightest 

course  — 
That  the  things  he  should  not  do  he 

did  — 
That  he  hid  from  the  eyes  of  mortals, 

close, 
Such  sins  as  you  and  I  have  hid  ? 

Or  suppose  him  worse  than  you  ;  what 
then? 

Judge  not,  lest  you  be  judged  for  sin  ! 
One  said  who  knew  the  hearts  of  men  : 

Who  loveth  much  shall  a  pardon  win. 

The  Prince  of  Glory  for  sinners  bled  ; 

His  soul  was  bought  with  a  royal  price  ; 
And  his  beautified  feet  on  flowers  may 
tread 

To-day  with  his  Lord  in  Paradise. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

GREAT  master  of  the  poet's  art ! 

Surely  the  sources  of  thy  powers 
Lie  in  that  true  and  tender  heart 

Whose  every  utterance  touches  ours. 

For,  better  than  thy  words,  that  glow 
With  sunset  dyes  or  noontide  heat, 

That  count  the  treasures  of  the  snow, 
Or  paint  the  blossoms  at  our  feet, 

Are  those  that  teach  the  sorrowing  how 
To  lay  aside  their  fear  and  doubt, 

And  in  submissive  love  to  bow 
To  love  that  passeth  finding  out. 

And  thou  for  such  hast  come  to  be 
In  every  home  an  honored  guest  — 

Even  from  the  cities  by  the  sea 
To  the  broad  prairies  of  the  West. 

Thy  lays  have  cheered  the  humble  home 
Where  men  who  prayed  for  freedom 
knelt ; 

And  women,  in  their  anguish  dumb, 
Have  heard  thee  utter  what  they  felt. 

And  thou  hast  battled  for  the  right 
With   many   a   brave  and   trenchant 
word, 

his  own  burial-place,  except  that  the  spot  should 
be  one  from  which  the  humblest  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  were  not  excluded,  left  by  will  one 
thousand  dollars  to  beautify  and  adorn  the  grave 
of  his  mother. 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


307 


And  shown  us  how  the  pen  may  fight 
A  mightier  battle  than  the  sword. 

And  therefore  men  in  coming  years 
Shall  chant  thy  praises  loud  and  long  ; 

And  women  name  thee   through   their 

tears 
A  poet  greater  than  his  song. 

But  not  thy  strains,  with  courage  rife, 
Nor  holiest  hymns,  shall  rank  above 

The  rhythmic  beauty  of  thy  life, 
Itself  a  canticle  of  love  ! 


THE  HERO  OF  FORT  WAGNER. 

FORT  WAGNER  !  that  is  a  place  for  us 
To  remember  well,  my  lad  ! 

For  us,  who  were  under  the  guns,  and 

know 
The  bloody  work  we  had. 

I  should  not  speak  to  one  so  young, 

Perhaps,  as  I  do  to  you  ; 
But  you  are  a  soldier's  son,  my  boy, 

And  you  know  what  soldiers  do. 


And 


comes   to   our  land 


when   peace 
again, 

And  your  father  sits  in  his  home, 
You  will  hear  such  tales  <>f  war  as  this, 
For  many  a  year  to  come. 

We  were  repulsed  from  the  Fort,  you 
know, 

And  saw  our  heroes  fall, 
Till  the  dead  were  piled  in  bloody  heaps 

Under  the  frowning  wall. 

Yet  crushed  as  we  were  and  beaten 
back, 

Our  spirits  never  bowed  ; 
And  gallant  deeds  that  day  were  done 

To  make  a  soldier  proud. 

Brave  men  were  there,  for  their  coun- 
try's sake 

To  spend  their  latest  breath  ; 
But  the  bravest  was  one  who  gave  his 

life 
And  his  body  after  death. 

No  greater  words  than  his  dying  ones 
Have  been  spoken  under  the  sun  ; 

Not  even  his.  who  brought  the  news 
On  the  field  at  Ratisbon. 


I  was  pressing  up,  to  try  if  yet 
Our  men  might  take  the  place, 

And  my  feet  had  slipped  in  his  oozing 

blood 
Before  I  saw  his  face. 

His  face  !  it  was  black  as  the  skies  o'er- 

head 

With  the  smoke  of  the  angry  guns  ; 
And  a  gash  in  his   bosom  showed  the 

work 
Of  our  country's  traitor  sons. 

Your  pardon,  my  poor  boy  !  I  said, 

I  did  not  see  you  here  ; 
But  I  will  not  hurt  you  as  T  pass  ; 

I  '11  have  a  cafe  ;  no  fear  ! 

He  smiled ;   he   had   only   strength   to 
say 

These  words,  and  that  was  all  : 
"  I  'm  done  gone,  Massa  ;  step  on  me; 

And  you  can  scale  the  wall  !  " 


GARIBALDI  IN  PIEDMONT. 

HEMMED  in  by  the  hosts  of  the  Aus- 
trians, 

No  succor  at  hand, 
Adown  the  green  passes  of  Piedmont, 

That  beautiful  land, 

Moves  a  patriot  band. 

Two  Jong   days   and  nights,   watchful, 

sleepless, 

Have  they  ridden  nor  yet 
Checked  the  rein,  though  the  feet   of 

their  horses, 
In  the  ripe  vineyard  set, 
By  its  wine  have  been  wet. 

What  know  they  of  weariness,  hunger, 
What  good  can  they  lack, 

While  they  follow  their  brave  Garibaldi, 
Who  never  turns  back, 
Never  halts  on  his  track  ? 

By  the    Austrians    outnumbered,   sur- 
rounded, 
On  left  and  on  right ; 

Strong  and  fearless  he  moves  as  a  giant, 
Who  rouses  to  fight 
From  the  slumbers  of  night. 

So,  over  the  paths  of  Orfano, 
His  brave  horsemen  tread, 


308 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Long  after  the  sun,  halting  wearied, 
Hath  hidden  his  head 
In  his  tent-folds  of  red. 

Every  man  with  his  eye  on  his  leader, 
Whom  a  spell  must  have  bound, 

For  he  rideth  as  still  as  the  shadow, 
That  keeps  step  on  the  ground, 
In  a  silence  profound. 

With  the   harmony   Nature   is  breath- 
ing, 

His  soul  is  in  tune  ; 
He  is  bathed  in  a  bath  of  the  splendor 

Of  the  beautiful  moon, 

Of  the  air  soft  as  June  ! 

But  what  sound  meets  the  ear  of  the 
soldier  ; 

What  menacing  tone  ? 
For  look  !  how  the  horse  and  the  rider 

Have  suddenly  grown 

As  if  carved  in  stone. 

Leaning  down  toward  that  fair  grove  of 

olives 

He  waits  ;  doth  it  mean 
That  he  catches  the  tramp  of  the  Aus- 

trians, 

That  his  quick  eye  hath  seen 
Their  bayonets'  sheen  ? 

Nay !   there,  where    the    thick    leaves 
about  her 

By  the  music  are  stirred, 
Sits  a  nightingale  singing  her  rapture, 

And  the  hero  hath  heard 

But  the  voice  of  a  bird  ! 

A  hero  !  aye,  more  than  a  hero 

By  this  he  appear  ; 
A  man,  with  a  heart  that  is  tender, 

Unhardened  by  years  ; 

Who  shall  tell"  what  he  hears  ? 

Not  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  only, 
Floating  soft  on  the  breeze, 

But  the  music  of  dear  human  voices, 
And  blended  with  these 
The  sound  of  the  seas. 

Ah,  the  sea,   the  dear  sea  !  from   the 

cradle 

She  took  him  to  rest ; 
Leaping    out    from    the    arms   of    his 

mother, 

He  went  to  her  breast 
And  was  softly  caressed. 


Perchance  he  is  back  on  her  bosom, 
Safe  from  fear  or  alarms, 

Clasping  close  as  of  old  that  first  mis- 
tress 

Whose  wonderful  charms 
Drew  him  down  to  her  arms. 

By  the  memories  that  come  with  that 
singing 

His  soul  has  been  wiled 
Far  away  from  the  danger  of  battle  ; 

Transported,  beguiled, 

He  again  is  a  child, 

Sitting  down  at  the  feet  of  the  mother, 
Whose  prayers  are  the  charm 

That  ever  in  conflict  and  peril 
Has  strengthened  his  arm, 
And  kept  him  from  harm. 

Nay,  who  knows  but  his  spirit  that  mo- 
ment 
Was  gone  in  its  quest 

Of  that  bright  bird  of  paradise,  vanished 
Too  soon  from  the  nest 
Where  her  lover  was  blest  ! 

For  unerring  the  soul  finds  its  kindred, 

Below  or  above  ; 
And,  as  over  the  great  waste  of  waters 

To  her  mate  goes  the  dove, 

So  love  seeks  its  love. 

Did   he   see   her    first    blush,   burning 

softly 

His  kisses  beneath  ; 
Or  her  dear  look  of  love,  when  he  held 

her 

Disputing  with  -Death 
For  the  last  precious  breath  ? 

Lost  Anita  !  sweet  vision  of  beauty, 

Too  sacred  to  tell 
Is  the  tale  of  her  dear  life,  that,  hidden 

In  his  heart's  deepest  cell, 

Is  kept  safely  and  well. 

And    what    matter    his    dreams  !     He 
whose  bosom 

With  such  rapture  can  glow 
Hath  something  within  him  more  sacred 

Than  the  hero  may  show, 

Or  the  patriot  know. 

And  this  praise,  for  man  or  for  hero, 

The  best  were,  in  sooth  ; 
His  heart,   through  life's  conflict   and 
peril, 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


309 


Has  kept  its  first  truth, 
And  the  dreams  of  its  youth. 


JOHN  BROWN. 

MEN  silenced  on  his  faithful  lips 

Words  of  resistless  truth  and  pow- 
er;— 

Those  words,  reechoing  now,  have  made 
The  gathering  war-cry  of  the  hour. 

They  thought  to  darken  down  in  blood 
The  light  of  freedom's  burning  rays  ; 

The  beacon-fires  we  tend  to-day 
Were  lit  in  that  undying  blaze. 

They  took  the  earthly  prop  and  staff 
Out  of  an  unresisting  hand  ; 

God  came,  and  led  him  safely  on, 
By  ways,  they  could  not  understand. 

They  knew  not,  when  from  his  old  eyes 
They  shut  the  world  for  evermore, 

The  ladder  by  which  angels  come 
Rests  firmly  on  the  dungeon's  floor. 

They  deemed   no  vision  bright  could 
cheer 

His  stony  couch  and  prison  ward  ; 
He  slept  to  dream  of  Heaven,  and  rose 

To  build  a  Bethel  to  the  Lord  ! 

They  showed  to  his  unshrinking  gaze 
The  "  sentence  "  men  have  paled  to 
see ; 

He  read  God's  writing  of  "  reprieve," 
And  grant  of  endless  liberty. 

They  tried  to  conquer  and  subdue 
By  marshaled  power  and  bitter  hate  ; 

The  simple  manhood  of  the  man 
Was  braver  than  an  armed  state. 

They  hoped  at  last  to  make  him  feel 
The  felon's  shame,  and  felon's  dread  ; 

/Vnd  lo  !  the  martyr's  crown  of  joy 
Settled  forever  on  his  head  ! 


OTWAY. 

POET,  whose  lays  our  memory  still 
Back  from  the  past  is  bringing, 

Whose  sweetest  songs  were  in  thy  life 
And  never  in  thy  singing  ; 


For    chords    thy    hand     had    scarcely 
touched 

By  death  were  rudely  broken, 
And  poems,  trembling  on  thy  lip, 

Alas  !  were  never  spoken. 

We  say  thy  words  of  hope  and  cheer 
When  hope  of  ours  would  languish, 

And  keep  them  always  in  our  hearts 
For  comfort  in  our  anguish. 

Yet  not  for  thee  we  mourn  as  those 
Who  feel  by  God  forsaken  ; 

We  would  rejoice  that  thou  wert  lent, 
Nor  weep  that  thou  wert  taken. 

For  thou  didst  lead  us  up  from  earth 

To  walk  in  fields  elysian, 
And  show  to  us  the  heavenly  shore 

In  many  a  raptured  vision. 

Thy  faith  was  strong  from  earth's  last 
trial 

The  spirit  to  deliver, 
And  throw  a  golden  bridge  across 

Death's  dark  and  silent  river  ; 

A    bridge,  where    fearless    thou   didst 
pass 

The  stern  and  awful  warder, 
And  enter  with  triumphant  songs 

Upon  the  heavenly  border. 

Oh,  for  a  harp  like  thine  to  sing 
The  songs  that  are  immortal  ; 

Oh,  for  a  faith  like  thine  to  cross 
The  everlasting  portal ! 

Then  might  we  tell  to  all  the  world 
Redemption's  wondrous  story  ; 

Go  down  to  death  as  thou  didst  go, 
And  up  from  death  to  glory. 


OUR  GOOD  PRESIDENT. 

OUR  sun  hath  gone  down  at  the  noon- 
day, 

The  heavens  are  black  ; 
And  over  the  morning,  the  shadows 

Of  night-time  are  back. 

Stop  the  proud  boasting  mouth  of  the 
cannon  ; 

Hush  the  mirth  and  the  shout ;  — 
God  is  God  !  and  the  ways  of  Jehovah 

Are  past  finding  out. 


3io 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Lo  !  the  beautiful  feet  on  the  mountains, 

That  yesterday  stood, 
The  white  feet  that  came  with  glad  tid- 
ings 

Are  dabbled  in  blood. 

The  Nation  that  firmly  was  settling 

The  crown  on  her  head, 
Sits  like  Rizpah,  in  sackcloth  and  ashes, 

And  watches  her  dead. 

Who  is  dead  ?  who,  unmoved   by  our 

wailing, 

Is  lying  so  low  ? 

O  my  Land,  stricken  dumb  in  your  an- 
guish, 
Do  you  feel,  do  you  know, 

That  the  hand  which  reached  out  of  the 

darkness 

Hath  taken  the  whole  ; 
Yea,  the  arm  and  the  head  of  the  peo- 
ple,- 
The  heart  and  the  soul  ? 

And  that  heart,  o'er  whose  dread  awful 

silence 

A  nation  has  wept ; 

Was  the  truest,  and  gentlest,  and  sweet- 
est, 
A  man  ever  kept, 


Why,  he  heard  from  the  dungeons,  the 

rice-fields, 

The  dark  holds  of  ships 
Every  faint,  feeble   cry  which  oppres- 
sion 
Smothered  down  on  men's  lips. 

In  her  furnace,  the  centuries  had  weld- 
ed 

Their  fetter  and  chain  ; 
And  like  withes,  in  the  hands  of  his  pur- 
pose, 
He  snapped  them  in  twain. 

Who  can  be  what  he  was  to  the  peo- 
ple,- 

What  he  was  to  the  state  ? 
Shall  the  ages  bring  to  us  another 

As  good  and  as  great  ? 

Our     hearts    with     their    anguish    are 
broken, 

Our  wet  eyes  are  dim  ; 
For  us  is  the  loss  and  the  sorrow, 

The  triumph  for  him  ! 

For,  ere  this,  face  to  face  with  his  Fa- 
ther 

Our  martyr  hath  stood ; 
Giving  into  his  hand  a  white  record, 

With  its  great  seal  of  blood  ! 


POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


TO  THE   CHILDREN. 

DEAR  little  children,  where'er  you  be, 
Who  are  watched   and   cherished  ten- 
derly 

By  father  and  by  mother ; 
Who   are    comforted  by  the  love   that 

lies 

In  the  kindly  depths  of  a  sister's  eyes, 
Or  the  helpful  words  of  a  brother  : 

I  charge  you  by  the  years  to  come, 
When   some   shall    be   far   away  from 

your  home, 

And  some  shall  be  gone  forever  ; 
By  all  you  will  have  to  feel  at  the  last, 
When  you  stand  alone  and  think  of  the 

past, 
That  you  speak  unkindly  never  ! 

For  cruel  words,  nay,  even  less, 
Words  spoken  only  in  thoughtlessness, 

Nor  kept  against  you  after  ; 
If  they  made  the  face  of  a  mother  sad, 
Or  a  tender  sister's  heart  less  glad, 

Or  checked  a  brother's  laughter ; 

WTill  rise  again,  and  they  will  be  heard, 
And  every  thoughtless,  foolish  word 

That  ever  your  lips  have  spoken, 
After  the  lapse  of  years  and  years, 
Will  wring  from  you  such  bitters  tears 

As  fall  when  the  heart  is  broken. 

May  you  never,  never  have  to  say, 
When  a  wave  from  the  past  on  some 

dreary  day 

Its  wrecks  at  your  feet  is  strewing, 
"  My  father   had   not   been   bowed   so 

low, 

Nor  my  mother  left  us  long  ago, 
But  for  deeds  of  my  misdoing  !  " 

May  you  never  stand  alone  to  weep 
Where  a  little  sister  lies  asleep, 
With  the  flowery  turf  upon  her, 


And  know  you  would  have  gone  down 

to  the  dead 

To  save  one  curl  of  her  shining  head 
From  sorrow  or  dishonor  : 

Yet  have  to  think,  with  bitter  tears, 
Of  some  little  sin  of  your  childish  years, 

Till  your  soul  is  anguish-riven  ; 
And  cry,  when  there  comes  no  word  or 

smile, 
"  I  sinned,  but  I  loved  you  all  the  while, 

And  I  wait  to  be  forgiven  !  " 

May  you  never  say  of  a  brother  dear, 
"  Did  I  do  enough  to  aid'and  cheer, 

Did  I  try  to  help  and  guide  him  ? 
Now  the  snares  of  the  world  about  him 

lie, 
And  if  unhonored  he  live  and  die, 

I  shall  wish  I  were  dead  beside  him  !  " 

Dear  little  innocent,  precious  ones, 
Be  loving,  dutiful  daughters  and  sons, 

To  father  and  to  mother ; 
And,  to  save  yourselves  from  the  bitter 

pain. 
That   comes  when  regret   and  remorse 

are  vain, 
Be  good  to  one  another  ! 


GRISELDA   GOOSE. 

NEAR  to   a  farm-house,  and   bordered 
round 

By  a  meadow,  sweet  with  clover, 
There  lay  as  clear  and  smooth  a  pond 

As  ever  a  goose  swam  over. 

The  farmer   had  failures   in   corn   and 

hops, 

From  drought  and  various  reasons  ; 
But  his  geese  had  never  failed  in  their 

crops 
In  the  very  worst  of  seasons. 


312 


THE   POEMS  OF  PHOLBE   GARY. 


And  he  had  a  flock,  that  any  day 

Could  defy  all  sneers  and  slanders  ; 
They  were  certainly  handsome,  —  that 

is  to  say, 

They  were  handsome  for  geese  and 
ganders ! 

And,  once  upon  a  time,  in  spring, 
A  goose  hatched  out  another,  — 

The  softest,  cunningest,  downiest  thing, 
That  ever  gladdened  a  mother. 

There  was  never  such  a  gosling  born, 
So  the  geese  cried  out  by  dozens  ; 

She  was  praised  and  petted,  night  and 

morn, 
By  aunts,  and  uncles,  and  cousins. 

She  must  have  a  name  with  a  lofty 

sound, 

Said  all,  when  they  beheld  her  ; 
So   they  proudly  led   her  down  to  the 

pond, 
And  christened  her,  Griselda  ! 

Now  you  think,  no  doubt,  such  love  and 
pride 

Must  perfectly  content  her  ; 
That  she  grew  to  goosehood  satisfied 

To  be  what  Nature  meant  her. 

But  folk  with  gifts  will  find  it  out, 
Though  the  world  neglects  that  duty  ; 

And  a  lovely  female  will  seldom  doubt, 
Though  others  may,  her  beauty  ! 

And  if  she  had  thought  herself  a  fright, 
And  been  content  with  her  station, 

She  would  n't  have  had  a  story  to  write, 
Nor  I,  my  occupation. 

But  indeed   the   truth   compels   me   to 
own, 

Whoever  may  be  offended, 
That  my  heroine's  vanity  was  shown 

Ere  her  gosling  days  were  ended. 

When  the  mother  tried  to  teach  the  art 
Of  swimming  to  her  daughter, 

She  said  that  she  didn't  like  to  start, 
Because  it  ruffled  the  water. 

*'  My  stars  !  "  cried  the  parent,  "  do  I 

dream, 

Or  do  I  rightly  hear  her  ? 
Can  it  be  she  would  rather  sit  still  on 

the  stream, 
Than  spoil  her  beautiful  mirror  ?  " 


Yet,  if  any  creature  could  be  so  fond 
Of  herself,  as  to  reach  insanity, 

A  goose,  who  lives  on  a  glassy  pond, 
Has  most  excuse  for  such  vanity  ! 

And  I  do  not  agree  with  those  who  said 
They  would  glory  in  her  disgraces  ; 

Hers  is  n't  the  only  goose's  head 
That  ever  was  turned  by  praises. 

And  Griselda  swallowed  all  their  praise  : 

Though  she  said  to  her  doting  mother, 

"  Still,  a  goose  is  a  goose,  to  the  end  of 

her  days, 

From  one  side  of  the  world  to  the 
other  ! 

"  And  as  to  my  name  it  is  well  enough 

To  say,  or  sing,  or  whistle  ; 
But  you  just  wait  till  I  'm  old  and  tough, 

And   you  '11   see   they   will    call   me 
Gristle  !  " 

So  she  went,  for  the  most  of  the  time, 
alone, 

Because  she  was  such  a  scoffer  ; 
And,  awful  to  tell  !  she  was  nearly  grown 

Before  she  received  an  offer  ! 

"  Nobody  will  have  her,  that  is  clear," 
Said  those  who  spitefully  eyed  her  ; 

Though   they   knew  every  gander,  far 

and  near, 
Was  dying  to  waddle  beside  her. 

And  some  of  those  that  she  used  to 
slight, 

Now  come  to  matronly  honor, 
Began  to  feel  that  they  had  a  right 

To  quite  look  down  upon  her. 

And  some  she  had  jilted  were  heard  to 

declare, 

"  I  do  not  understand  her  ; 
And  I  should  n't  wonder,  and  should  n't 

care, 
If  she  never  got  a  gander  !  " 

But  she  said  so  all  could  overhear,  — 
And  she  hoped  their  ears  might  tin- 
gle,— 
"  If  she   could  n't    marry   above   their 

sphere, 
She  preferred  remaining  single  !  " 

She  was  praised  and  flattered  to  her  face, 
And  blamed  when  she  was  not  pres- 
ent; 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


313 


And  between  her  friends  and  foes,  her 

place 
Was  anything  but  pleasant. 

One  day  she  learned  what  gave  her  a 

fright, 

And  a  fit  of  deep  dejection  ; 
And  she  said  to  herself,  that  come  what 

might, 
She  would  cut  the  whole  connection. 

The  farmer's  wife  to  the  geese  pro- 
posed, 

Their   spending   the  day  in  the  sta- 
ble ; 

And  the  younger  ones,    left   out,    sup- 
posed 
She  would  set  an  extra  table. 

So  they  watched  and  waited  till  day  was 
done, 

With  curiosity  burning  ; 
For  it  was  n't  till  after  set  of  sun, 

That  they  saw  them  back  returning. 

Slowly  they  came,  and  each  was  bowed 
As  if  some  disgrace  was  upon  her ; 

They  did  n't  look    as    those    who   are 

proud 
Of  an  unexpected  honor  ! 

Each   told   the    naked    truth :   't  was  a 

shock, 

But  who  that  saw,  could  doubt  her  ? 
They  had  plucked  the  pluckiest  goose 

of  the  flock, 
Of  all  the  down  about  her. 

Said  Miss  Griselda,  "  That's  my  doom, 

If  I  stay  another  season  ;  " 
So  she  thought  she  'd  leave  her  roosting 
room  ; 

And  I  think  she  had  some  reason. 

Besides,  there  was  something  else  she 
feared  ; 

For  oft  in  a  kind  of  flurry, 
A  goose  mysteriously  disappeared, 

And  did  n't  come  back  in  a  hurry. 

And  scattered  afterwards  on  the 
ground,  — 

Such  things  there  is  no  mistaking,  — 
Familiar  looking  bones  were  found, 

Which  set  her  own  a-quaking. 

She  said,  "  There  is  danger  if  T  stay, 
From  which  there  are  none  exempted  ; 


So,  though  I  perish  in  getting  away, 
The  thing  shall  be  attempted." 

And,  perfectly  satisfied  about 
Her  claims  to  a  foreign  mission, 

She  slipped  away,  and  started  out 
On  a  secret  expedition. 

And  oh  !  how  her  bosom  swelled  with 
pride  ; 

How  eager  hope  upbore  her  ; 
As  floating  down  the  stream,  she  spied 

A  broad  lake  spread  before  her. 

And    bearing    towards    her,   fair    and 
white, 

The  pleasant  breezes  courting, 
A  flock  of  swans  came  full  in  sight, 

On  the  crystal  waters  sporting. 

She  saw  the  lake  spread  clear  and  wide, 
And  the  rich  man's  stately  dwelling, 

And  felt  the  thrill  of  hope  and  pride 
Her  very  gizzard  swelling. 

"  These  swans,"  she  said,   "  are   quite 
unknown, 

Even  to  their  ranks  and  stations  ; 
Yet  I  think  I  need  not  fear  to  own 

Such  looking  birds  for  relations. 

"  Besides,  no  birds  that  walk  on  lawns 
Are  made  for  common  uses  ; 

Men  do  not  take  their  pick  of  swans  . 
In  the  way  they  do  of  gooses. 

"  Blanch  Swan  !  I  think  I  '11  take  that 
name, 

Nor  be  ashamed  to  wear  it ; 
Griselda  Goose  !  that  sounds  so  tame 

And  low,  I  cannot  bear  it  !  " 

Thought    she,   the    brave    deserve    to 

win, 

And  only  they  can  do  it  : 
So  she  made  her  plan,  and  sailed  right. 

in, 
Determined  to  go  through  it. 

Straight    up    she    went   to  the  biggest 
swan, 

The  one  who  talked  the  loudest  ; 
For  she  knew  the  secret  of  getting  on 

Was  standing  up  with  the  proudest. 

"  Madam,"  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  're 

home, 
And  I  hope  to  know  you  better  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


You  're  an  aunt  of  mine,  I  think,  but  I 

come 
With  an  introductory  letter." 

Then  she  fumbled,  and  said,  "  I  've  lost 

the  thing  ! 

No  matter  !  I  can  quote  it ; 
And  here  's  the  pen,"  and  she   raised 

her  wing, 

"  With  which  Lord  Swansdown  wrote 
it. 

"  Of  course  you  never  heard  of  me, 
As  I  'm  rather  below  your  station  ; 

But  a   lady  famed  like  yourself,  you 

see, 
Is  known  to  all  creation." 

Then  to  herself  the  old  swan  said, 
"  Such  talk  's  not  reprehensible  ; 

Indeed,  for  a  creature  country-bred, 
She  's  very  shrewd  and  sensible." 

Griselda  saw  how  her  flattery  took, 
And  cried,  on  the  silence  breaking, 

"  You  see  I  have  the  family  look, 
My  neck  there  is  no  mistaking. 

"  It  does  n't  compare  with  yours  ;  you 

know 

I  've  just  a  touch  of  the  democracy  ; 
While  your  style   and  manner   plainly 

show 
Your  perfect  aristocracy." 

Such  happy  flattery  did  the  thing  : 
Though  the  young  swans  doubtfully 
eyed  her, 

My  Lady  took  her  under  her  wing, 
And  kept  her  close  beside  her. 

And  Griselda  tried  at  ease  to  appear, 
And  forget  the  home  she  had  quitted  ; 

For  she  told  herself  she  had  reached  a 

sphere 
At  last  for  which  she  was  fitted. 

Though  she  had  some  fits  of  common 

sense, 

And  at  times  grew  quite  dejected ; 
For  she  was  n't  deceived  by   her   own 

pretense, 
And  she  knew  what  others  suspected. 

If  ever  she  went  alone  to  stray, 

Some  pert  young  swan  to  tease  her 

Would  ask,  in  a  patronizing  way, 

If  their  poor  home  did  n't  please  her  ? 


Sometimes  when  a  party  went  to  sail 
On  the  lake,  in  pleasant  weather, 

As  if  she  was  not  within  the  pale, 
She  was  left  out  altogether. 

And  then  she  would   take  a   haughty 
tone, 

As  if  she  scorned  them,  maybe  ; 
But  often  she  hid  in  the  weeds  alone, 

And  cried  like  a  homesick  baby. 

One    day  when    she   had   gone  to  her 

room, 

With  the  plea  that  she  was  ailing, 
They  asked  some  rather  gay  birds  to 

come 
For  the  day,  and  try  the  sailing. 

But  they  said,  "  She  will  surely  hear  the 
stir, 

So  we  '11  have  to  let  her  know  it ; 
Of  course  we  are  all  ashamed  of  her, 

But  it  will  not  do  to  show  it." 

So  one  of  them  went  to  her,  and  said, 
With  a  sort  of  stately  rustle  : 

"  I  suppose  you    would  rather    spare 

your  head 
Than  join  in  our  noise  and  bustle  ! 

"  If  you  wish  to  send  the  slightest  ex- 
cuse, 

I  '11  be  very  happy  to  take  it ; 
And  I   hope  you  're    not  such   a  little 

goose 
As  to  hesitate  to  make  it !  " 

Too  well  Griselda  understood  ; 

And  said,  "  Though  my  pain  's  dis- 
tressing, 
I  think  the  change  will  do  me  good, 

And  I  do  not  mind  the  dressing." 

'T  was  the  "  little  goose  "  that  made  her 

mad, 

So  mad  she  would  n't  refuse  her  ; 
Though  she  saw  from  the  first  how  very 

glad 
Her  friend  would  be  to  excuse  her. 

She  had  overdone  the  thing,  poor  swan  ! 

As  her  ill  success  had  shown  her  ; 
Shot  quite  beyond  the  mark,  and  her  gun 

Recoiled  and  hit  the  owner. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  cried,  "  I  've 

done  my  best ; 
But  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  sinner, 


POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN. 


315 


That  little  dowdy,  frightfully  dressed, 
Is  coming  down  to  dinner  ! 

"  I  tried  in  every  way  to  show 

That  I  thought  it  an  impropriety  ; 

But  I  s'pose  the  creature  does  n't  know 
The  manners  of  good  society  !  " 

Griselda  thought,  "  If  it  comes  to  that, 
With  the  weapon  she  takes  I  '11  meet 
her. 

She  's  sharp,  but  I  Ml  give  her  tit  for  tat, 
And  I  think  that  I  can  beat  her." 

So  she  came  among  them  quite  at  ease, 

By  her  very  look  contriving 
To  say,  "  I  'm  certain  there  's   nothing 
could  please 

You  so  much  as  my  arriving." 

And  her  friend  contrived  to  whisper  low, 
As  she  made  her  genuflexion  : 

"  A  country  cousin  of  ours,  you  know  ; 
A  very  distant  connection  ! 

"  She  has  n't  much  of  an  air,  you  see, 
And  is  rather  new  to  the  city ; 

Aunt  took  her  up  quite  from  charity, 
And  keeps  her  just  from  pity." 

But  Griselda  paid  her,  fair  and  square, 
For  all  her  sneers  and  scorning  ; 

And  "the/^?  was  quite  a  successful  af- 
fair," 
•So  the  papers  said  next  morning. 

And  yet  she  cried  at  the  close  of  day, 
Till  the  lake  almost  ran  over, 

To  think  what  a  price  she  had  to  pay 
To  get  into  a  sphere  above  heY. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  that  our  common 
sense 

Should  be  lost  when  others  flatter  ; 
I  was  born  a  goose,  and  no  pretense 

Will  change  or  help  the  matter  !  " 

At  last  she  did  nothing  but  mope  and 
fret, 

And  think  of  effecting  a  clearance  ! 
She  got  as  low  as  a  lady  can  get,  — 

She  did  n't  regard  her  appearance  ! 

She  got  her  pretty  pink  slippers  soiled 
By  wearing  them  out  in  bad  weather  ; 

And  as  for  her  feathers,  they' were  not 

oiled 
Sometimes  for  a  week  together. 


Had  she  seen  just  how  to  bring  it  about, 
She  would  have  left  in  a  minute  ; 

But  she  found  it  was  harder  getting  out 
Of  trouble  than  getting  in  it. 

She  looked  down  at  the  fish  with  en- 
vious eyes, 

Because  each  mother's  daughter, 
Content  in  her  element,  never  tries 

To  keep  her  head  above  water  ! 

She  wished  she  was  by  some  good  luck, 
Turned  into  a  salmon  finny  ; 

Into  a  chicken,  or  into  a  duck : 
She  wished  herself  in  Guinea. 

One  day  the  Keeper  came  to  the  lake, 

And  if  he  did  n't  dissemble, 
She  saw  that  to  her  he  meant  to  take, 

In  a  way  that  made  her  tremble. 

With  a  chill  of  fear  her  feathers  shook, 
Although  to  her  friend  she  boasted 

He  had  such  a  warm,  admiring  look, 
That  she  feared  she  should  be  roast- 
ed; 

And  that  for  very  modesty's  sake, 
Since  nothing  else  could  shield  her, 

She  would  go  to  the  other  end  of  the 

lake, 
And  stay  till  the  night  concealed  her. 

So,  taking  no  leave,  she  stole  away, 
And  nobody  cared  or  missed  her ; 

But  the  geese  on  the  pond  were  sur- 
prised, next  day, 
By  the  sight  of  their  missing  sister. 

She  told  them  she  strayed  too  far  and 

got  lost ; 
And  though  being  from  home   had 

pained  her, 
Some  wealthy  friends  that  she  came  a- 

cross, 
Against  her  will  detained  her. 

But  it  leaked  from  the  lake,  or  a  bird  of 
the  air 

Had  carried  to  them  the  matter  ; 
For  even  before  her,  her  story  was  there, 

And  they  all  looked  doubtfully  at  her. 

Poor  Griselda  !  unprotected,  alone, 
By  their  slights  and  sneers  was  nettled ; 

For  all  the  friends  that  her  youth  had 

known 
Were  respectably  married  and  settled  ; 


THE   POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Or  all  but  one,  —  a  poor  old  coot, 
That  she  used  to  scorn  for  a  lover  ; 

He  was  shabbier  now,  and  had  lost  a 

foot, 
That  a  cart-wheel  had  run  over. 

But  she  said,  "  There  is  but  one  thing 
to  be  clone 

For  stopping  sneers  and  slanders  ; 
For  a  lame  excuse  is  better  than  none, 

And  so  is  the  lamest  of  ganders  !  " 

So  she  married  him,  but  do  you  know, 
They  did  not  cease  to  flout  her  ; 

For  she  somehow  could  n't  make  it  go 
With  herself,  nor  those  about  her. 

They  spoke  of  it  with  scornful  lip, 
Though  they  did  n't  exactly  drop  her  ; 

As  if  't  was  a  limited  partnership, 
And  not  a  marriage  proper. 

And  yet  in  truth  I  'm  bound  to  say 
Her  state  was  a  little  better  ; 

Though  I  heard  her  friend  say  yesterday 
To  another  one,  who  met  her,  — 

"Oh,  I  saw  old  Gristle  Goose  to-night, 
(Of  course  I  did  not  seek  it) ; 

I  suppose  she  is  really  Mrs.  White, 
Though  it  sticks  in  my  crop  to  speak 

it!  " 


THE   ROBIN'S  NEST. 

JENNY  BROWN  has  as  pretty  a  house  of 

her  own 
As  ever  a  bird  need  to  want,  I  should 

think  ; 
And  the  sheltering  vine  that  about  it 

had  grown, 

Half  hid  it  in  green  leaves  and  roses 
of  pink. 

As  she  never  looked  shabby,  or  seemed 

out  of  date, 
It  was  surely  enough,  though  she  had 

but  one  dress  ; 
And  Robin,  the  fellow  she  took  for  her 

mate, 

Was  quite  constant  —  that  is,  for  a 
Robin,  I  guess. 

Jenny  Brown  had  four  birdies,  the  cun- 

ningest  things 

That  ever  peeped  back  to  a  mother- 
bird's  call ; 


That  only  could  flutter  their  soft  downy 

wings, 

And  open  their  mouths  to  take  food 
—  that  was  all. 

Now    I   dare    say  you    think  she  was 

happy  and  gay, 

And  she  was  almost  always  content- 
ed ;  but  yet, 
Though  I  know  you  will  hardly  believe 

what  I  say, 

Sometimes  she  would  ruffle  her  feath- 
ers and  fret. 

One  day,  tired  of  flying  about  in  the 

heat, 
She  came  home  in  her  Grossest  ai\d 

sulkiest  mood  ; 
And  though  she  brought  back  not   a 

morsel  to  eat, 

She  pecked  little  Robin  for  crying  for 
food. 

Just  then    Robin   came   and  looked  in 

through  the  trees, 
And  saw  with  a  quick  glance  that  all 

was  not  right, 
But  he  sung  out  as  cheerful  and  gay  as 

you  please  : 

"  Why,  Jenny,  dear  Jenny,  how  are 
you  to-night  ?  " 

It  made  her  more  angry  to  see  him  so 

calm, 
While  she  suffered  all   that   a  bird 

could  endure  ; 
And  she  answered,  "  '  How  am  I  ? '  who 

cares  how  1  am  ? 
It   is  n't  you,  Robin,  for  one,  I   am 


"  You  know  I  've  been  tied  here  day  in 

and  day  out, 
Till  I  'm  tired  almost  of  my  home  and 

my  life, 
While  you  —  you  go  carelessly  roving 

about, 

And  singing   to  every  one   else   but 
your  wife." 

Then    Robin    replied :    "  Little   reason 

you  've  got 
To  complain  of  me,  Jenny ;  wherever 

I  roam 
I  still  think  of  you,  and  your  quieter 

lot, 

And  wish  't  was  my  place  to  stay  here 
at  home. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


317 


"  And  as  to  my  singing,  I  give  you  my 

word, 
'T  is  in  concert,  and  always  in  public, 

beside  ; 

For  excepting  yourself,  there  is  no  lady- 
bird 

Knows  the  softest  and  lovingest  notes 
I  have  tried. 

"And,   Jenny,"  —  and    here    he   spoke 

tenderly  quite, 
As  with  head  drooped  aside  he  drew 

nearer  and  stood,  — 
"  I  heard   some  sad   news  as   I   came 

home  to-night, 

About  our  poor  neighbors  that  live  in 
the  wood. 

"  You    know    Nelly    Jay,    that    wild, 

thoughtless  young  'thing, 
Who  takes  in  her  children  and  home 

no  delight, 
But  early  and  late  is  abroad    on   the 

wing, 

To  chatter  and  gossip  from  morning 
till  night,  — 

"  Well,  yesterday,  just  after  noon,  she 

went  out, 
And   strayed  till  the   sun  had   gone 

down  in  the  west ; 
Complaining   to   some   of   her  friends, 

I  've  no  doubt, 

Of  the  trouble  she  had  taking  care  of 
her  nest ; 

"And  her  sweet  little  Nelly,  —  you've 

seen  her,  my  dear, 
The  brightest  and  sprightliest  bird  of 

them  all, 
The  age   of   our  Jenny,   I  think,   very 

near, 

Tumbled   out  of  the   nest  and  was 
killed  by  the  fall. 

"  I  saw  the  poor  thing  lying  stiff  on  the 

ground, 
With   its  little  wing   broke  and  the 

film  o'er  its  eyes, 

While  the  mother  was  flying  distract- 
edly round 

And  startling  the  wood  with  her  pit- 
eous cries. 

"  As  I  stopped,  just  to  say  a  kind,  com- 
forting word, 

I   thought   how  my  own   home  was 
guarded  and  blessed ; 


For,  Jenny,  my  darling,  my  beauty,  my 

bird, 

I  knew  I  should  find  you  content  in 
the  nest ! 

"And  how  are  our  birdies  ?  —  the  dear 

little  things  ; 
How  softly  and  snugly  asleep  they 

are  laid  ; 
But  don't  fold  them  quite  so  close  under 

your  wings, 

Or  you  '11  kill    them  with   kindness, 
my  pet,  I  'm  afraid. 

"  And,  Jenny,  I  '11  stay  with  them  now, 

—  nay,  I  must, 
While  you  go  out  a  moment,  and  take 

the  fresh  air ; 
You  sit  here  too  much  by  yourself,  I 

mistrust, 

And    are    quite    overburdened   with 
work  and  with  care. 

"  What,   you   don't   want   to  go !    you 

want  nothing  so  long 
As   your   dear  little   ones  and   your 

Robin  are  here  ? 
Then   I  '11   stay  with  you,  Jenny,    and 

sing  the  old  song 

I  sang  when  I  courted  you  —  shall  I, 
my  dear?" 


RAIN   AND    SUNSHINE. 

I  WAS  out  in  the  country 

To  feel  the  sweet  spring, 
I  was  out  in  the  country 

To  hear  the  birds  sing  ; 
To  bask  in  the  sunshine, 

Breathe  air  pure  and  sweet, 
And  walk  where  the  blossoms 

Grew  under  my  feet. 

So  at  morning  I  woke 

While  my  chamber  was  dark, 
And  was  up  —  or  I  should  have  been  • 

Up  with  the  lark, 
Only  no  lark  was  rising  ; 

And  never  a  throat 
Of  bird  since  the  morning 

Had  uttered  a  note. 

It  was  raining,  and  sadly 

I  gazed  on  the  skies, 
Saying,  "  Nothing  is  left  us 

To  gladden  our  eyes ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  no  pleasanter  sound 

Than  this  drip  on  the  pane  !  " 

When  I  caught  a  soft  patter 
That  was  not  the  rain. 

First  I  heard  the  light  falling 

Of  feet  on  the  stair, 
Then  the  voice  of  a  child 

Ringing  clear  through  the  air, 
And  with  eyes  wide  awake, 

And  curls  tumbled  about, 
Came  Freddy,  the  darling, 

With  laugh  and  with  shout. 

No  longer  we  heeded 

The  rain  or  the  gloom  ; 
His  smile,  like  the  sunshine, 

Illumined  the  room  ; 
We  missed  not  the  birds 

While  his  glad  voice  was  nigh 
His  lips  were  our  roses, 

His  eyes  were  our  sky. 

Sweet  pet  of  the  household, 

And  hope  of  each  heart, 
God  keep  thee,  dear  Freddy, 

As  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  make  thee,  when  changes 

And  sorrows  shall  come, 
The  comfort  and  sweetness 

And  sunshine  of  home  ! 


BABY'S   RING. 

MOTHER  's  quite  distracted, 

Sister  's  in  despair ; 
All  the  household  is  astir, 

Searching  everywhere. 
Every- nook  must  be  explored, 

Every  corner  scanned  — 
Baby  's  lost  the  tiny  ring 

From  her  little  hand. 

Surely  never  such  a  babe 

Made  a  mother  glad ; 
Never  such  a  dainty  hand 

Any  baby  had  ! 
Smallest  ring  was  ever  made 

Off  her  finger  slips  ; 
She  should  have  a  fairy's  ring 

For  such  rosy  tips. 

When  she  comes  to  womanhood, 

If  she  keeps  so  fair, 
She  will  surely  wear  the  ring 

Maidens  love  to  wear  : 


And  lest  she  should  lose  it  then, 
(She  '11  be  wise  and  deep,) 

She  will  give  to  somebody 
Ring  and  hand  to  keep. 


DON'T   GIVE    UP. 

IF  you  've  tried  and  have  not  won, 

Never  stop  for  crying ; 
All  that 's  great  and  good  is  done 

Just  by  patient  trying. 

Though  young  birds,  in  flying,  fall, 
Still  their  wings  grow  stronger ; 

And  the  next  time  they  can  keep 
Up  a  little  longer. 

Though  the  sturdy  oak  has  known 
Many  a  blast  that  bowed  her, 

She  has  risen  again,  and  grown 
Loftier  and  prouder. 

If  by  easy  work  you  beat, 

Who  the  more  will  prize  you  ? 

Gaining  victory  from  defeat, 
That 's  the  test  that  tries  you  ! 


THE   GOOD   LITTLE   SISTER. 

THAT  was  a  bitter  winter 

When  Jenny  was  four  years  old 

And  lived  in  a  lonely  farm-house  — 
Bitter,  and  long,  and  cold. 

The  crops  had  been  a  failure  — 

In  the  barns  there  was  room  to  spare  5 

And  Jenny's  hard-working  father 
Was  full  of  anxious  care. 

Neither  his  wife  nor  children 
Knew  lack  of  fire  or  bread  ; 

They  had  whatever  was  needful, 

Were    sheltered,    and    clothed,    and 
fed. 

But  the  mother,  alas  !  was  ailing  — 
'T  was  a  struggle  just  to  live; 

And  they  scarce  had  even  hopeful  words, 
Or  cheerful  smiles  to  give. 

A  good,  kind  man  was  the  father, 
He  loved  his  girls  and  boys  ; 

But  he  whose  hands  are  his  riches 
Has  little  for  gifts  and  toys. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


319 


So  when  it  drew  near  the  season 
That  makes  the  world  so  glad  — 

When  Jenny  knew  't  was  the  time  for 

gifts, 
Her  childish  heart  was  sad. 

For  she  thought,  "  I  shall  get  no  pres- 
ent 

When  Christmas  comes,  I  am  sure  ;  " 
Ah  !  the  poor  man's  child  learns  early 

Just  what  it  means  to  be  poor. 

Yet  still  on  the  holy  even 

As  she  sat  by  the  hearth-stone  bright, 
And  her  sister  told  good  stories, 

Her  heart  grew  almost  light. 

For  the  hopeful  skies  of  childhood 

Are  never  quite  o'ercast  : 
And  she  said,  "  Who  knows  but  some- 
how, 

Something  will  come  at  last !  " 

Lo,  before  she  went  to  her  pillow, 
Her  pretty  stockings  were  tied 

Safely  together  and  slyly  hung, 
Close  to  the  chimney  side. 

There  was  little  room  for  hoping, 
One  would  say  who  had  lived  more 
years  ; 

Yet  the  faith  of  the  child  is  wiser 

Sometimes  than  our  cioubts  and  fears. 

Jenny  had  a  good  little  sister, 
Very  big  to  her  childish  eyes, 

Who  was  womanly,  sweet,  and  patient, 
And  kind  as  she  was  wise. 

And  she  had  thought  of  this  Christ- 
mas, 

And  the  little  it  could  bring, 
Ever  since  the  crops  were  half  destroyed 

By  the  freshet  in  the  spring. 

So  the  sweetest  nuts  of  the  autumn 
She  had  safely  hidden  away  ; 

And  the  ripest  and  reddest  apples 
Hoarded  for  many  a  day. 

And  last  she  mixed  some  seed-cakes 

(Jenny  was  sleeping  then), 
And  moulded  them  grotesquely, 

Like  birds,  and  beasts,  and  men. 

Then  she  slipped  them  into  the  stock- 
ings, 
And  smiled  to  think  about 


The  joyful  wonder  of  her  pet, 

When  she   found  and  poured  them 
out. 

And  you  could  n't  have  seen  next  morn- 
ing 

A  gladder  child  in  the  land 
Than  that  humble  farmer's  daughter, 

With  her  simple  gifts  in  her  hand. 

And  the  loving  sister  ?  ah  !  you  know 

How  blessed  't  is  to  give  ; 
And  they  who  think  of  others  most 

Are  the  happiest  folks  that  live  ! 

She  had  done  what  she  could,  my  chil- 
dren, 

To  brighten  that  Christmas  Day  ; 
And  whether  her  heart  or  Jenny's 

Was  lightest,  it  is  hard  to  say. 

And  this,  if  you  have  but  little, 
Is  what  I  would  say  to  you  : 

Make  all  you  can  of  that  little  — 
Do  all  the  good  you  can  do. 

And  though  your  gifts  may  be  humble, 

Let  no  little  child,  I  pray, 
Find  only  an  empty  stocking 

On  the  morn  of  the  Christmas  Day  ! 

'T  is  years  and  years  since  that  sister 
Went  to  dwell  with  the  just ; 

And  over  her  body  the  roses 
Blossom  and  turn  to  dust. 

And  Jenny  's  a  happy  woman, 

With  wealth  enough  and  to  spare  ; 

And  every  year  her  lap  is  filled 
With  presents  fine  and  rare. 

But  whenever  she  thanks  the  givers 

For  favors  great  and  small, 
She  thinks  of  the  good  little  sister 

Who  gave  her  more  than  they  all  ! 


NOW. 

IF  something  waits,   and    you  should 
now 

Begin  and  go  right  through  it, 
Don't  think,  if  't  is  put  off  a  day, 

You  '11  not  mind  to  do  it. 

Waste  not  moments,  no  nor  words. 
In  telling  what  you  could  do 


320 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


Some  other  time  ;  the  present  is 
For  doing  what  you  should  do. 

Don't  do  right  unwillingly, 

And  stop  to  plan  and  measure  ; 

'T  is  working  with  the  heart  and  soul, 
That  makes  our  duty  pleasure. 


THE   CHICKEN'S   MISTAKE. 

A  LITTLE  downy  chicken  one  day 
Asked  leave  to  go  on  the  water, 

Where  she  saw  a  duck  with  her  brood 

at  play, 
Swimming  and  splashing  about  her. 

Indeed,  she  began  to  peep  and  cry, 
When  her  mother  would  n't  let  her  : 

"  If   the   ducks   can   swim   there,   why 

can't  I  ; 
Are  they  any  bigger  or  better  ?  " 

Then  the  old  hen  answered,  "  Listen  to 
me, 

And  hush  your  foolish  talking  ; 
Just  look  at  your  feet,  and  you  will  see 

They  were  only  made  for  walking." 

But  chicky  wistfully  eyed  the  brook, 
And  did  n't  half  believe  her, 

For  she  seemed  to  say,  by  a  knowing 

look, 
"  Such  stories  could  n't  deceive  her." 

And  as  her  mother  was  scratching  the 

ground, 

She  muttered  lower  and  lower, 
"  I  know  I  can  go   there   and   not  be 

drowned, 
And  so  I  think  I  '11  show  her." 

Then  she  made   a  plunge,  where   the 
stream  was  deep, 

And  saw  too  late  her  blunder  ; 
For  she  had  n't  hardly  time  to  peep 

Till  her  foolish  head  went  under. 

And  now  I  hope  her  fate  will  show 
The  child,  my  story  reading. 

That   those  who   are   older  sometimes 

know 
What  you  will  do  well  in  heeding, 

That  each  content  in  his  place  should 

dwell, 
And  envy  not  his  brother ; 


And  any  part  that  is  acted  well, 
Is  just  as  good  as  another. 

For  we  all  have  our  proper  sphere  be- 
low, 

And  this  is  a  truth  worth  knowing. 
You  will  come  to  grief  if  you  try  to  go 
Where  you  never  were  made  for  go- 
ing 


EFFIE'S    REASONS. 

TELL  me,  Effie,  while  you  are  sitting, 

Cosily  beside  me  here, 
Talking  all  about  your  brothers, 

Which  you  like  the  best,  my  dear. 

"  Tom  is  good  sometimes,"  said  Effie, 

"Good  as  any  boy  can  be  ; 
But  at  other  times  he  does  n't 

Seem  to  care  a  bit  for  me. 

"  Half  the  days  he  will  not  help  me, 
Though  the  way  to  school  is  rough ; 

Nor  assist  me  with  my  lessons, 

When  he  knows  them  well  enough. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  love  him  dearly  — 
He  's  a  brother  like  the  rest, 

Though  I  know  he  's  not  the  best  one  ; 
And  I  do  not  love  him  best. 

"  Now  there  's  Charlie,  my  big  brother, 
Oh  !  he  's  always  just  as  kind  ! 

All  day  I  may  ask  him  questions, 
And  he  does  n't  seem  to  mind. 

"  He  with  every  lesson  helps  me, 
And  he  's  sure  to  take  my  part ; 

So  I  think  I  ought  to  love  him  — 
And  I  do  with  all  my  heart. 

"  But  there  's  cunning  little  Neddy  — 
Well,  he  's  not  so  awful  good  ; 

But  he  never  seems  to  mean  it 
When  he  answers  cross  or  rude. 

"  Sometimes,  half  in  fun,  he  strikes  me, 

Just,  I  mean,  a  little  blow  ; 
But  he  'd  never,  never  do  it 

If  he  thought  it  hurt,  I  know. 

"  Then  again  he  's  nice  and  pleasant, 
Coaxing  me  and  kissing  me  ; 

When  he  wants  to  ask  a  favor, 
He  's  as  good  as  he  can  be. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


321 


"  He  can't  help  me  with  my  lessons, 
He  has  hardly  learned  to  spell ; 

But  in  everything  I  help  him, 
And  I  like  it  just  as  well. 

"  He  is  never  good  as  Charlie  ; 

Naughtier  oft  than  Tom,  I  know  ; 
But  for  all  that  I  love  him, 

Just  because  I  love  him  so  !  " 


FEATHERS. 

You  restless,  curious  little  Jo, 

I  have  told  you  all  the  stories  I  know, 

Written  in  poem  or  fable ; 
I  have  turned  them  over,  and  let  you 

look 
At  everything  like  a  picture-book 

Upon  my  desk  or  table. 

I  think  it 's  enough  to  drive  one  wild 
To  be  shut  up  with  a  single  child, 

And  try  for  a  day  to  please  her. 
Oh  dear  me  !   what  does  a  mother  do, 
Especially  one  who  lives  in  a  shoe, 

And  has  a  dozen  to  tease  her  ? 

"  Aha  !  I  've  found  the  very  thing," 
I  cried,  as  I  saw  the  beautiful  wing 

Of  a  bird,  and  I  said  demurely  : 
"  Now,  if  you  '11  be  good  the  rest  of  the 

day, 
I  '11  give  you  a  bird  with  which  to  play ; 

You  know  what  a  bird  is,  surely  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  v  and  she  opened  wide  her 

eyes, 
"  A  bird  is  alive,  and  sings  and  flies  ; 

Then,  folding  her  hands  together, 
She  archly  shook  her  wise  little  head, 
And,  looking  very  innocent,  said, 

"  I  know  a  bird  from  a  feather  !  " 

Well  !  of  all  the  smart  things  uttered 

yet 
By  a  baby  three  years  old,  my  pet  ! 

It 's  enough  to  frighten  your  mother. 
Why,  I  've  seen  women  —  yes,  and  men, 
Who  have  lived  for  threescore  years 

and  ten, 

Who    did  n't    know    one    from    the 
other  ! 

Now  there  is  Kittv,  past  sixteen  — 
The  one  with  the  soldier  beau,  I  mean  — 
When  he  makes  his  bayonet  rattle, 
21 


And  acts  so  bravely  on  parade, 
She  thinks  he  would  n't  be  afraid 
In  the  very  front  of  battle. 

But  yet,  if  I  were  allowed  to  guess, 

I  should  say  her  soldier  was  all  in  the 

dress, 
And  you  '11  find  my  guess  is  the  right 

one. 

If  ever  he  has  to  meet  the  foe, 
The  first,  and  only  feather  he  '11  show 
That  day  will  be  a  white  one. 

There 's    Mrs.    Pie,    in    her    gorgeous 

plumes  ; 
Why,  half    the    folks    who    visit    her 

rooms, 

Because  she  is  dressed  so  finely 
And  holds  herself  at  the  highest  price, 
Pronounce  her  a  bird  of  paradise, 
And  say  she  sings  divinely  ; 

While  many  a  one,  with  a  sweeter  lay, 
Because  her  feathers  are  plain  and  gray, 

The  world's  approval  misses, 
And  only  gets  its  scorn  and  abuse  ; 
She  is  called  a  failure,   and  called  a 
goose, 

And  her  song  is  met  with  hisses. 

Men  will  stick  as  many  plumes  on  their 

head 
As  an   Indian  chief  who   has   bravely 

shed 

The  blood  of  a  hostile  nation, 
When  all  the   killing  they've  done  or 

seen 
Was    killing    themselves  —  that    is,    I 

mean 
In  the  public  estimation. 

When  Tom  to  his  pretty  wife  was  wed, 
"  She  's  fuss  and  feathers,"  people  said, 

That  any  woman  could  borrow  ; 
And  sure  enough,  her  feathers  fell, 
Though  the  fuss  was  the  genuine  arti- 
cle, 

As  Tom  has  found  to  his  sorrow. 

When  Mrs.  Butterfly,  who  was  a  grub, 
First  got   her   wings,   she  was  such   a 

snob, 

She  scorned  the  folks  around  her, 
And  made,  as   she   said,    the  feathers 

fly; 

But  when  she  fell,  she  had  gone  so  high, 
She  was  smashed  as  fiat  as  a  floun- 
der. 


322 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   CARY. 


Alas,  alas  !  my  little  Jo, 

I  'm  sorry  to  tell  it,  and  sorry  it 's  so  ; 

But  as  to  deceiving,  I  scorn  to. 
And    I  only   hope  that   when  you  are 

grown 
You  will  keep  the   wonderful  wisdom 

you  've  shown, 
Nor  lose  the  wit  you  were  born  to. 

But  whether  folks,  so  wise  when  they  're 

small, 
Can  ever  live  to  grow  up  at  all, 

Is  one  of  the  doubtful  whethers. 
I  'm  sure  it  happens  but  seldom,  though, 
Or  there  would  n't  be  so  many,   you 

know, 
Who  can't  tell  birds  from  feathers. 


THE  PRAIRIE  ON  TIRE. 

THE  long  grass  burned  brown 

In  the  summer's  fierce  heat, 
Snaps  brittle  and  dry 

'Neath  the  traveler's  feet, 
As  over  the  prairie, 

Through  all  the  long  day, 
His  white,  tent-like  wagon 

Moves  slow  on  its  way. 

Safe  and  snug  with  the  goods 

Are  the  little  ones  stowed, 
And  the  big  boys  trudge  on 

By  the  team  in  the  road  ; 
While  his  sweet,  patient  wife, 

With  the  babe  on  her  breast, 
Sees  their  new  home  in  fancy, 

And  longs  for  its  rest. 

But  hark  !  in  the  distance 

That  dull,  trampling  tread  ; 
And  see  how  the  sky 

Has  grown  suddenly  red  ! 
What  has  lighted  the  west 

At  the  hour  of  noon  ? 
It  is  not  the  sunset, 

It  is  not  the  moon  ! 

The  horses  are  rearing 

And  snorting  with  fear, 
And  over  the  prairie 

Come  flying  the  deer 
With  hot  smoking  haunches, 

And  eyes  rolling  back, 
As  if  the  fierce  hunter 

Were  hard  on  their  track. 


The  mother  clasps  closer 

The  babe  on  her  arm, 
While  the  children  cling  to  her 

In  wildest  alarm  ; 
And  the  father  speaks  low 

As  the  red  light  mounts  higher 
"  We  are  lost  !  we  are  lost  ! 

'T  is  the  prairie  on  fire  !  " 

The  boys,  terror-stricken, 

Stand  still,  all  but  one  : 
He  has  seen  in  a  moment 

The  thing  to  be  done 
He  has  lighted  the  grass, 

The  quick  flames  leap  in  air  ; 
And  the  pathway  before  them 

Lies  blackened  and  bare. 

How  the  fire-fiend  behind 

Rushes  on  in  his  power ; 
But  nothing  is  left 

For  his  wrath  to  devour. 
On  the  scarred  smoking  earth 

They  stand  safe,  every  one, 
While  the  flames  in  the  distance 

Sweep  harmlessly  on. 

Then  reverently  under 

The  wide  sky  they  kneel, 
With  spirits  too  thankful 

To  speak  what  they  feel ; 
But  the  father  in  silence 

Is  blessing  his  boy, 
While  the  mother  and  children 

Are  weeping  for  joy. 


DAPPLEDUN. 

A  LITTLE  boy  who,  strange  to  say, 
Was  called  by  the  name  of  John, 

Once  bought  himself  a  little  horse 
To  ride  behind,  and  upon. 

A  handsomer  beast  you  never  saw, 

He  was  so  sleek  and  fat ; 
"  He  has  but  a  single  fault,"  said  John, 

"  And  a  trifling  one  at  that." 

His  mane  and  tail  grew  thick  and  long, 
He  was  quick  to  trot  or  run  ; 

His  coat  was  yellow,  flecked  with  brown; 
John  called  him  Dappledun. 

He  never  kicked  and  never  bit ; 
In  harness  well  he  drew  ; 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


323 


But  this  was  the  single  foolish  thing 
That  Dappledun  would  do. 

He  ran  in  clover  up  to  his  knees, 
His  trough  was  filled  with  stuff ; 

Yet  he  'd  jump  the  neighbor's  fence,  and 

act 
As  if  he  had  n't  enough. 

If  he  only  could  have  been  content 
With  his  feed  of  oats  and  hay, 

Poor  headstrong,  foolish  Dappledun 
Had  been  alive  to-day. 

But  one  night  when  his  rack  was  filled 

With  what  he  ought  to  eat, 
He  thrust  his  nose  out  of  his  stall, 

And  into  a  bin  of  wheat. 

And  there  he  ate,  and  ate,  and  ate, 
And  when  he  reached  the  tank 

Where     Johnny     watered     him      next 

morn, 
He  drank,  and  drank,  and  drank. 

And  when  that  night  John  carried  him 
The  sweet  hay  from  the  rick, 

lie  lay  and  groaned,  and  groaned,  and 

groaned, 
For  Dappledun  was  sick. 

And  when  another  morning  came 
And  John  rose  from  his  bed 

And  went  to  water  Dappledun, 
Poor  Dappledun  was  dead  ! 


SUPPOSE! 

SUPPOSE,  my  little  lady, 

Your  doll  should  break  her  head, 
Could  you  make  it  whole  by  crying 

Till  your  eyes  and  nose  are  red  ? 
And  would  n't  it  be  pleasanter 

To  treat  it  as  a  joke  ; 
And  say  you  're  glad  "  'T  was  Dolly's 

And  not  your  head  that  broke  ?  " 

Suppose  you  're  dressed  for  walking, 

And  the  rain  comes  pouring  down, 
Will  it  clear  off  any  sooner 

Because  you  scold  and  frown  ? 
And  would  n't  it  be  nicer 

For  you  to  smile  than  pout, 
And  so  make  sunshine  in  the  house 

When  there  is  none  without  ? 


Suppose  your  task,  my  little  man, 

Is  very  hard  to  get, 
Will  it  make  it  any  easier 

For  you  to  sit  and  fret  ? 
And  would  n't  it  be  wiser 

Than  waiting  like  a  dunce, 
To  go  to  work  in  earnest 

And  learn  the  thing  at  once  ? 

Suppose  that  some  boys  have  a' horse, 

And  some  a  coach  and  pair, 
Will  it  tire  you  less  while  walking 

To  say,  "  It  is  n't  fair  ?  " 
And  would  n't  it  be  nobler 

To  keep  your  temper  sweet, 
And  in  your  heart  be  thankful 

You  can  walk  upon  your  feet  ? 

And  suppose  the  world  don't  please 
you, 

Nor  the  way  some  people  do, 
Do  you  think  the  whole  creation 

Will  be  altered  just  for  you  ? 
And  is  n't  it,  my  boy  or  girl, 

The  wisest,  bravest  plan, 
Whatever  comes,  or  does  n't  come, 

To  do  the  best  you  can  ? 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    NORTH- 
LAND. 

AWAY,  away  in  the  Northland, 

Where  the  hours  of  the  day  are  few, 

And  the  nig'hts  are  so  long  in  winter, 
They  cannot  sleep  them  through ; 

Where  they  harness  the  swift  reindeer 
To  the  sledges,  when  it  snows  ; 

And  the  children  look  like  bear's  cubs 
In  their  funny,  furry  clothes  : 

They  tell  them  a  curious  story  — 

I  don't  believe  't  is  true  ; 
And  yet  you  may  learn  a  lesson 

If  I  tell  the  tale  to  you. 

Once,  when  the  good  Saint  Peter 

Lived  in  the  world  below, 
And  walked  about  it,  preaching, 

Just  as  he  did,  you  know ; 

He  came  to  the  door  of  a  cottage, 
In  traveling  round  the  earth, 

Where    a    little    woman   was  making 

cakes, 
And  baking  them  on  the  hearth  ; 


324 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  being  faint  with  fasting, 
For  the  day  was  almost  done, 

He  asked  her,  from  her  store  of  cakes, 
To  give  him  a  single  one. 

So  she  made  a  very  little  cake, 

But  as  it  baking  lay, 
She  looked  at  it,  and  thought  it  seemed 

Too  large  to  give  away. 

Therefore  she  kneaded  another, 

And  still  a  smaller  one  ; 
But  it  looked,  when  she  turned  it  over, 

As  large  as  the  first  had  done. 

Then  she  took  a  tiny  scrap  of  dough, 
And  rolled  and  rolled  it  flat ; 

And  baked  it  thin  as  a  wafer  — 
But  she  could  n't  part  with  that. 

For  she  said,  "  My  cakes  that  seem  too 
small 

When  I  eat  of  them  myself, 
Are  yet  too  large  to  give  away." 

So  she  put  them  on  the  shelf. 

Then  good  Saint  Peter  grew  angry, 
For  he  was  hungry  and  faint ; 

And  surely  such  a  woman 

Was  enough  to  provoke  a  saint. 

And  he  said,  "  You  are  far  too  selfish 

To  dwell  in  a  human  form, 
To  have  both  food  and  shelter, 

And  fire  to  keep  you  warm. 

"  Now,  you  shall  build  as  the  birds  do, 
And  shall  get  your  scanty  food 

By  boring,  and  boring,  and  boring, 
All  day  in  the  hard  dry  wood." 

Then  u  )  she  went  through  the  chim- 
ney, 

Never  speaking  a  word, 
And  out  of  the  top  flew  a  woodpecker, 

For  she  was  changed  to  a  bird. 

She  had  a  scarlet  cap  on  her  head, 
And  that  was  left  the  same, 

But  all  the    rest    of   her    clothes  were 

burned 
Black  as  a  coal  in  the  flame. 

And  every  country  school -boy 

Has  seen  her  in  the  wood ; 
Where  she  lives  in  the  trees  till  this  very 
day, 

Boring  and  boring  for  food. 


And  this  is  the  lesson  she  teaches  : 

Live  not  for  yourself  alone, 
Lest  the  needs  you  will  not  pity 

Shall  one  day  be  your  own. 

Give  plenty  of  what  is  given  to  you, 

Listen  to  pity's  call  ; 
Don't  think  the  little  you  give  is  great, 

And  the  much  you  get  is  small. 

Now,  my  little  boy,  remember  that, 
And  try  to  be  kind  and  good, 

When  you  see  the  woodpecker's  sooty 

dress, 
And  see  her  scarlet  hood. 

You   may  n't   be   changed   to    a  bird, 

though  you  live 
As  selfishly  as  you  can  ; 
But  you  will  be  changed  to  a  smaller 

thing  — 
A  mean  and  selfish  man. 


EASY  LESSONS. 

COME,  little  children,  come  with  me, 
Where  the  winds  are  singing  merrily, 

As  they  toss  the  crimson  clover ; 
We  '11   walk  on  the   hills   and  by   the 

brooks, 
And  I  'II    show  you  stories   in  prettier 

books 
Than  the  ones  you  are  poring  over. 

Do  you  think  you  could  learn  to  sing  a 

song, 
Though  you  drummed  and  hummed  it 

all  day  long, 

Till  hands  and  brains  were  aching, 
That  would  match  the  clear,  untutored 

notes 

That  drop  from  the  pretty,  tender  throats 
Of  birds,  when  the  day  is  breaking  ? 

Did  you  ever  read,  on  any  page, 
Though  written  with  all  the  wisdom  of 

age, 

And  all  the  truth  of  preaching, 
Any  lesson  that  taught  you  so  plain 
Content  with   your  humble   work   and 

gain, 
As  the  golden  bee  is  teaching  ? 

For  see,  as  she  floats  on  her  airy  wings, 
How  she  sings  and  works,  and  works 
and  sings, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


325 


Never  stopping  nor  staying  ; 
Showing  us  clearly  what  to  do 
To  make  of  duty  a  pleasure,  too, 

And  to  make  our  work  but  playing. 

Do  you  suppose  that  a  book  can  tell 
Maxims  of  prudence,  half  so  well 

As  the  little  ant,  who  is  telling 
To     man,  as   she    patiently  goes    and 

comes, 
Bearing  her  precious  grains  and  crumbs, 

How  want  is  kept  from  the  dwelling  ? 

Whatever  a  story  can  teach  to  you 
Of  the  good  a  little  thing  may  do, 

The  hidden  brook  is  showing, 
Whose  quiet  way  is  only  seen 
Because  of  its  banks,  so  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  flowers  beside  it  growing. 

If  we  go  where  the  golden  lily  grows, 
Where,    clothed    in   raiment   fine,   she 

glows 

Like  a  king  in  all  his  glory, 
And  ponder  over  each  precious  leaf, 
We  shall  find  there,  written  bright  and 

brief, 
The  words  of  a  wondrous  story. 

We  shall  learn  the  beautiful  lesson  there 
That  our  Heavenly  Father's  loving  care, 

Even  the  lily  winneth  ; 
For  rich  in  beauty  thus  she  stands, 
Arrayed  by  his  gracious,  tender  hands, 

Though  she  toileth  not,  nor  spinneth. 

There  is  n't  a  blossom  under  our  feet, 
But  has  some  teaching,  short"  and  sweet, 

That  is  richly  worth  the  knowing  ; 
And  the  roughest  hedge,  or  the  sharpest 

thorn, 
Is  blest  with  a  power  to  guard  or  warn, 

If  we  will  but  heed  its  showing. 

So  do  not  spoil  your  happy  looks 
By  poring  always  over  your  books, 

Written  by  scholars  and  sages  ; 
For  there  's  many  a  lesson  in  brooks  or 

birds, 
Told  in  plainer  and  prettier  words 

Than  those  in  your  printed  pages. 

And  yet,  I  would  not  have  you  think 
No  wisdom  comes  through  pen  and  ink, 

And  all  books  are  dull  and  dreary  ; 
For  not  all  of  life  can  be  pleasant  play, 
Nor  every  day  a  holiday, 

And  tasks  must  be  hard  and  weary. 


And  that  is  the  very  reason  why 

I  would  have  you  learn  from  earth  and 

sky 

Their  lessons  of  good,  and  heed  them  : 
For  there  our  Father,  with  loving  hand, 
Writes  truths  that  a  child  may  under- 
stand, 
So  plain  that  a  child  can  read  them. 


OBEDIENCE. 

IF  you  're  told  to  do  a  thing, 
And  mean  to  do  it  really ; 

Never  let  it  be  by  halves  ; 
Do  it  fully,  freely  ! 

Do  not  make  a  poor  excuse, 
Waiting,  weak,  unsteady ; 

All  obedience  worth  the  name, 
Must  be  prompt  and  ready. 


THE   CROW'S   CHILDREN. 

A  HUNTSMAN,  bearing  his  gun  a-field, 

Went  whistling  merrily  ; 
When  he  heard  the  blackest  of  black 
crows 

Call  out  from  a  withered  tree  : 

"  You   are   going   to   kill   the   thievish 
birds, 

And  I  would  if  I  were  you  ; 
But  you  must  n't  touch  my  family, 

Whatever  else  you  do  !  " 

"  I  'm  only  going  to  kill  the  birds 
That  are  eating  up  my  crop  ; 

And  if  your  young  ones  do  such  things, 
Be  sure  they  '11  have  to  stop." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  crow,  "  my  children 
Are  the  best  ones  ever  born  ; 

There  is  n't  one  among  them  all 
Would  steal  a  grain  of  corn." 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  which  ones  they 

are  ? 

Do  they  resemble  you  ?  " 
"Oh  no/' said  the  crow,  "they're  the 

prettiest  birds, 
And  the  whitest  that  ever  flew  !  " 

So  off  went  the  sportsman,  whistling, 
And  off,  too,  went  his  gun  ; 


326 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHLEBE    GARY. 


And  its  startling  echoes  never  ceased 
Again  till  the  day  was  done. 

And  the  old  crow  sat  untroubled, 

Cawing  away  in  her  nook  ; 
For   she   said,   "  He  '11   never   kill   my 
birds, 

Since  I  told  him  how  they  look. 

"  Now  there  's  the  hawk,  my  neighbor, 
She  '11  see  what  she  will  see,  soon  ; 

And  that  saucy  whistling  blackbird 
May  have  to  change  his  tune  !  " 

When,  lo  !  she  saw  the  hunter 
Taking  his  homeward  track, 

With  a  string  of  crows  as  long  as  his 

gun, 
Hanging  down  his  back. 

"  Alack,  alack  !  "  said  the  mother, 
"  What  in  the  world  have  you  done  ? 

You  promised  to  spare  my  pretty  birds, 
And  you  've  killed  them  every  one." 

"  Your  birds  !  "  said  the  puzzled  hunter, 
"  Why,  I  found  them  in  my  corn  ; 

And  besides,  they  are  black  and  ugly 
As  any  that  ever  were  born  !  " 

"  Get  out  of  my  sight,  you  stupid  !  " 

Said  the  angriest  of-  crows  ; 
"  How  good  and  fair  her  children  are, 

There  's  none  but  a  parent  knows  !  " 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  hunter, 

"  But  not  as  you  do,  quite  ; 
It  takes  a  mother  to  be  so  blind 

She  can't  tell  black  from  white  ! " 


HIVES   AND   HOMES. 

WHEN  March  has  gone  with  his  cruel 

wind, 

That  frightens  back  the  swallow, 
And  the  pleasant  April  sun  has  shined 
Out  through  her    showery   clouds,  we 

find 
Pale  blooms  in  the  wood  and  hollow. 

But  after  the  darling  May  awakes, 
Bedecked  with  flowers  like  a  fairy  ; 

About   the   meadows  and  streams  and 
lakes 

She  drops  them  every  step  she  takes, 
For  she  has  too  many  to  carry. 


And  when  June  has  set  in  the  leafy 
trees 

Her  bird-tunes  all  a-ringing, 
Wherever  a  blossom  nods  in  the  breeze 
The  good,  contented,  cheerful  bees 

Are  found  at  work  and  singing. 

Ah,  the  wise  little  bees  !  they  know  how 
to  live, 

Each  one  in  peace  with  his  neighbor  ; 
For  though  they  dwell  in  a  narrow  hive, 
They  never  seem  too  thick  to  thrive, 

Nor  so  many  they  spoil  their  labor. 

And  well  may  they  sing  a  pleasant  tune, 
Since   their   life  has   such   complete- 
ness ; 

Their  hay  is  made  in  the  sun  of  June 
And  every  moon  is  a  honeymoon, 
And  home  a  home  of  sweetness. 

The  golden  belts  they  wear  each  day 

Are  lighter  than  belts  of  money ; 
And  making  work  as  pleasant  as  play, 
The  stings  of  life  they  give  away, 
And  only  keep  the  honey. 

They  are  teaching  lessons,  good  and 

true, 

To  each  idle  drone  and  beauty, 
And,  my  youthful  friends,  if  any  of  you 
Should  think    (though,  of  course,  you 

never  do) 
Of  love,  and  home,  and  duty  — 

And  yet  it  often  happens,  you  know, 

True  to  the  very  letter, 
That  youths  and   maidens,  when  they 

grow, 
Swarm  off  from  the  dear  old  hive  and 

g° 
To  another,  for  worse  or  better  ! 

So  you  'd  better  learn  that  this  life  of 

ours 

Is  not  all  show  and  glitter, 
And  skillfully  use  your  noblest  powers 
To   suck    the   sweets  from   its    poison 

flowers, 
And  leave  behind  the  bitter. 

But  wherever  you  stay,  or  wherever  you 

roam, 

In  the  days  while  you  live  in  clover, 
You    should    gather    your    honey  and 

bring  it  home, 

Because  the  winter  will  surely  come, 
When  the  summer  of  life  is  over. 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


327 


NORA'S    CHARM. 

'T  WAS  the  fisher's  wife  at  her  neigh- 
bor's door, 
And   she  cried,  as   she  wrung   her 

hands, 

"  O  Nora,  get  your  cloak  and  hood, 
And  haste  with  me  o'er  the  sands." 

Now  a  kind  man  was  the  fisherman, 

And  a  lucky  man  was  he  ; 
And  never  a  steadier  sailed  away 

From  the  Bay  of  Cromarty. 

And  the  wife  had  plenty  on  her  board, 
And  the  babe  in  her  arms  was  fair ; 

But  her  heart  was  always  full  of  fear, 
And  her  brow  was  black  with  care. 

And  she  stood  at  her  neighbor's  door 

and  cried, 

"  Oh,  woe  is  me  this  night ! 
For  the  fairies  have  stolen  my  pretty 

babe, 
And  left  me  an  ugly  sprite. 

"My  pretty  babe,  that  was  more  than 
all 

The  wealth  of  the  world  to  me  ; 
With  his  coral  lips,  and  his  hair  of  gold, 

And  his  teeth  like  pearls  of  the  sea  ! 

"  I  went  to  look  for  his  father's  boat, 
When  I  heard  the  stroke  of  the  oar ; 

And  1  left  him  cooing  soft  in  his  bed, 
As  the  bird  in  her  nest  by  the  door. 

"  And  there  was  the  father  fair  in  sight, 
And  pulling  hard  to  the  land ; 

And  my  foot   was   back  o'er   the   sill 

again, 
Ere  his  keel  had  struck  the  sand. 

"But  the  fairies  had  time  to  steal  my 
babe, 

And  leave  me  in  his  place 
A  restless  imp,  with  a  wicked  grin, 

And  never  a  smile  on  his  face." 

And  Nora  took  her  cloak  and  hood, 

And  softly  by  the  hand 
She  led  the  fisher's  wife  through  the 
night, 

Across  the  yellow  sand. 

"  Nay,  do  not  rave,  and  talk  so  wild ; " 
'T  was  Nora  thus  that  spoke ; 


"We    must    have    our  wits    to   work 

against 
The  arts  of  fairy  folk. 

"  There  's  a  charm  to  help  us  in  our 

need, 

But  its  power  we  cannot  try, 
WTith  the  black  cloud  hanging  o'er  the 

brow, 
And  the  salt  tear  in  the  eye. 

"  For  wicked  things  may  gibe  and  grin 

With  noisy  jeer  and  shout ; 
But  the  joyous  peal  of  a  happy  laugh 

Has  power  to  drive  them  out. 

"  And  if  this  sprite  we  can  but  please, 
Till  he  laughs  with  merry  glee, 

We  shall  break  the  spell  that  holds  him 

here, 
And  keeps  the  babe  from  your  knee." 

So  the  mother  wiped  her  tears  away, 

And  patiently  and  long 
They  plied  the  restless,  stubborn  imp 

With  cunning  trick  and  song. 

They  blew  a  blast  on  the  fisher's  horn, 
Each  curious  prank  they  tried  ; 

They  rocked  the  cradle  where  he  lay, 
As  a  boat  is  rocked  on  the  tide. 

But  there  the  hateful  creature  kept, 
In  place  of  the  human  child ; 

And  never  once  his  writhing  ceased, 
And  never  once  he  smiled. 

Then  Nora  cried,  "  Take  yonder  egg 

That  lies  upon  the  shelf, 
And  make  of  it  two  hollow  cups, 

Like  tiny  cups  of  delf." 

And  the  mother  took  the  sea-mew's  egg, 
And  broke  in  twain  the  shell, 

And  made  of  it  two  tiny  cups, 
And  filled  them  at  the  well. 

She  filled  them  up  as  Nora  bade, 

And  set  them  on  the  coals  : 
And  the  imp  grew  still,  for  he  ne'er  had 
seen 

In  fairy-land  such  bowls. 

And  when  the  water  bubbled  and  boiled, 

Like  a  fountain  in  its  play, 
Mirth  bubbled  up  to  his  lips,  and  he 
laughed 

Till  he  laughed  himself  away  ! 


328 


THE   FORMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


And  the  mother  turned  about,  and  felt 
The  heart  in  her  bosom  leap ; 

For  the  imp  was  gone,  and  there  in  his 

place 
Lay  her  baby  fast  asleep. 

And  Nora  said  to  her  neighbor,  "  Now 
There  sure  can  be  no  doubt 

But  a  merry  heart  and  a  merry  laugh 
Drive  evil  spirits  out ! 

"And    who   can    say  but    the    dismal 

frown 

And  the  doleful  sigh  are  the  sin 
That  keeps  the  good  from  our  homes 

and  hearts, 
And  lets  the  evil  in  !  " 


THEY   DID  N'T  THINK. 

ONCE  a  trap  was  baited 

With  a  piece  of  cheese  ; 
It  tickled  so  a  little  mouse 

It  almost  made  him  sneeze  ; 
An  old  rat  said,  "  There  's  danger, 

Be  careful  where  you  go  !  " 
"  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  other, 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  !  " 
So  he  walked  in  boldly  — 

Nobody  in  sight ; 
First  he  took  a  nibble, 

Then  he  took  a  bite  ; 
Close  the  trap  together 

Snapped  as  quick  as  wink, 
Catching  mousey  fast  there, 

'Cause  he  did  n't  think. 

Once  a  little  turkey, 

Fond  of  her  own  way, 
Would  n't  ask  the  old  ones 

Where  to  go  or  stay ; 
She  said,  "  I  'm  not  a  baby, 

Here  I  am  half-grown  ; 
Surely,  I  am  big  enough 

To  run  about  alone  !  " 
Off  she  went,  but  somebody 

Hiding  saw  her  pass  ; 
Soon  like  snow  her  feathers 

Covered  all  the  grass. 
So  she  made  a  supper 

For  a  sly  young  mink, 
'Cause  she  was  so  headstrong 

That  she  would  n't  think. 

Once  there  was  a  robin 
Lived  outside  the  door, 


Who  wanted  to  go  inside 

And  hop  upon  the  floor. 
"  Ho,  no,"  said  the  mother, 

"  You  must  stay  with  me ; 
Little  birds  are  safest 

Sitting  in  a  tree." 
"  I  do  n't  care,"  said  Robin, 

And  gave  his  tail  a  fling, 
"  I  don't  think  the  old  folks 

Know  quite  everything." 
Down  he  flew,  and  Kitty  seized  him, 

Before  he  'd  time  to  blink. 
"  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  I  'm  sorry, 

But  I  did  n't  think." 

Now  my  little  children, 

You  who  read  this  song, 
Don't  you  see  what  trouble 

Comes  of  thinking  wrong  ? 
And  can't  you  take  a  warning 

From  their  dreadful  fate 
Who  began  their  thinking 

When  it  was  too  late  ? 
Don't  think  there  's  always  safety 

Where  no  danger  shows, 
Don't  suppose  you  know  more 

Than  anybody  knows  ; 
But  when  you  're  warned  of  ruin, 

Pause  upon  the  brink, 
And  don't  go  under  headlong, 

'Cause  you  did  n't  think. 


AJAX. 

OLD  Ajax  was  a  faithful  dog, 

Of  the  best  and  bravest  sort ; 
And    we    made    a  friend  and  pet  of 
him, 

And  called  him  "  Jax,"  for  short. 
He  served  us  well  for  many  a  year, 

But  at  last  there  came  a  day 
When,  a  superannuated  dog, 

In  the  sun  he  idly  lay. 

And  though  as  kindly  as  before 

He  still  was  housed  and  fed, 
We  brought  a  younger,  sprightlier  dog 

For  service  in  his  stead. 
Poor  "Jax  !  "  he  knew  and  felt  it  all, 

As  well  as  you  or  I ; 
He  laid    his  head   on    his    trembling 
paws, 

And  his  whine  was  like  a  cry. 

And  then  he  rose  :  he  would  not  stay 
Near  where  the  intruder  stayed ; 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


329 


He  took  the  other  side  of  the  house, 

Though  that  was  in  the  shade. 
And    he    never    answered    when    we 

called, 

He  would  not  touch  his  bone  ; 
'T  was  more  than  he   could  bear  to 

have 
A  rival  near  his  throne. 

We  tried  to  soothe  his  wounded  pride 

By  every  kindly  art ; 
But  if  ever  creature  did,  poor  "  Jax  " 

Died  of  a  broken  heart. 
Alas  !  he  would  not  learn  the  truth, 

He  was  not  still  a  pup  ; 
That  every  dog  must  have  his  day, 

And  then  must  give  it  up  ! 


"  KEEP  A  STIFF  UPPER  LIP  !  " 

THERE  has  something  gone  wrong 

My  brave  boy,  it  appears, 
For  I  see  your  proud  struggle 

To  keep  back  the  tears. 
That  is  right.     When  you  cannot 

Give  trouble  the  slip, 
Then  bear  it,  still  keeping 

"  A  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 

Though  you  cannot  escape 

Disappointment  and  care, 
The  next  best  thing  to  do 

Is  to  learn  how  to  bear. 
If  when  for  life's  prizes 

You  're  running,  you  trip, 
Get  up,  start  again  — 

"  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 

Let  your  hands  and  your  conscience 

Be  honest  and  clean  ;  m 

Scorn  to  touch  or  to  think  of 

The  thing  that  is  mean  ; 
But  hold  on  to  the  pure 

And  the  right  with  firm  grip, 
And  though  hard  be  the  task, 

"  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 

Through     childhood,     through      man- 
hood, 

Through  life  to  the  end, 
Struggle  bravely  and  stand 

By  your  colors,  my  friend. 
Only  yield  when  you  must ; 

Never  "  give  up  the  ship," 
But  fight  on  to  the  last 

"  With  a  stiff  upper  lip  !  " 


WHAT  THE  FROGS  SING. 

"  I  'VE  got  such  a  cold  I  cannot  sing," 
Said    a    bull -frog  living    close   to   the 

spring,  — 

"  And  it  keeps  me  all  the  time  so  hoarse, 
That  my  voice  is  very  bass  of  course. 
I  hate  to  live  in  this  nasty  bog  ; 
It  is  n't  fit  for  a  decent  frog  : 
Now  there  's  that   bird,  just   hear  the 

note 

So  soft  and  sweet,  from  out  her  throat." 
He  said,  as  a  thrush  in  the  tree  above 
Was  trilling  her  liquid  song  of  love  : 
"  And  what  pretty  feathers  on  her  back, 
While  mine  is  mottled,  yellow  and  black  ; 
And  then  for  moving  she  has  her  wings, 
They  must  be  very  handy  things  ;  — 
And  this  all  comes,  as  one  may  see, 
Just  from  living  up  in  a  tree  ; 
She  'd  look  as  queer  as  I  do,  I  '11  bet, 
If  she  had  to  live  down  here  in  the  wet, 
And  be  as  hoarse,  if  doomed  to  tramp 
About  all  day  where  her  feet  got  damp. 

"  As  the  world  is  managed,  I  do  declare, 
Things  do  not  seem  exactly  fair  ; 
For  instance,  here  on  the  ground  I  lie, 
While  the  bird  lives  up  there,  high  and 

dry; 
Some  frogs  may  n't  care,  perhaps  they 

don't, 
But  I  can't   stand  such  things   and   I 

won't ; 

So  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  make  a  rise. 
Who    knows    what  he   can   do   till  he 

tries?" 

So  this  cunning  frog  he  winked  his  eye, 
He  was  lying  low  and  playing  sly ; 
For  he  did  not  want  the  frogs  about 
To  find  his  precious  secret  out ; 
But  when  they  were  all  in  the  mud  a-bed, 
And  the  thrush  in  her  wing  had  hid  her 

head, 

Then  Mr.  Bull  his  legs  uncurled, 
And  began  to  take  a  start  in  the  world. 
'T  was  from  the  foot  of  the  tree  to  hop, 
But  how  was  he  to  reach  the  top  ? 
For  it  wasn't  fun,  as  he  learned  in  time, 
To  climb  with  feet  not  made  to  climb  ; 
And  twenty  times  he  fell  on  his  head, 
But  he  would  n't  give  it  up,  he  said, 
For  nobody  saw  him  in  the  dark. 
So  he  clutched  once  more  at  the  scraggy 

bark, 
And  just  as  the  stars  were  growing  dim, 


330 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


He  sat  and  swung  on  the  topmost  limb  ; 
He  was  damp  with  sweat  from  foot  to 

head; 

"  Why  it 's  wet  enough  up  here,"  he  said, 
"  And  I  've  been  nicely  fooled,  I  see, 
In  thinking  it  dry  to  live  in  a  tree. 
Why  what  with  the  rain,  and  with  the 

dews, 

I  shall  have  more  water  than  I  can  use  !  " 
And  so  he  sat  there,  gay  as  a  grig, 
And  saw  the  sun  rise  bright  and  big ; 
And  when  he  caught  the  thrush's  note, 
He,  too,  began  to  time  his  throat ; 
But  his  style  of  music  seemed  to  sound 
Even  worse  than  it  did  on  the  ground  ; 
So  all  the  frightened  birds  took  wing, 
And  he  felt,  himself,  that  it  was  n't  the 

thing, 
Though  he  said,  "  I  don't  believe  what 

I 've  heard 

That  a  frog  in  a  tree  won't  be  a  bird." 
But    soon    the    sun   rose    higher   and 

higher, 

And  froggy's  back  got  drier  and  drier. 
Till  he  thought  perhaps   it  might  be 

better, 

If  the  place  was  just  a  little  wetter  ; 
But  when  he  felt  the  mid-day  glare, 
He  said  "  high  life  was  a  poor  affair  !  " 
No  wings  on  his  back  were  coming  out, 
He  did  n't  feel  even  a  feather  sprout ; 
He  could  n't  sing  ;  and  began  to  see 
He  was  just  a  bull-frog  up  a  tree  ; 
But  he  feared  the  sneers  of  his  friends 

in  the  bog, 

For  he  was  proud  as  any  other  frog  ; 
And  he  knew,  if  they  saw  him  coming 

down, 
He  would  be  the  laugh  and  jest  of  the 

town. 
So  he  waited  there,  while  his  poor  dry 

back 

Seemed  burning  up,  and  ready  to  crack ; 
His  yellow  sides  looked  pale  and  dim, 
And  his  eyes  with  tears  began  to  swim, 
And   he  said,   "  You   learn   when   you 

come  to  roam, 
That    nature    is  nature,   and  home  is 

home." 

And  when  at  last  the  sun  was  gone, 
And   the  shadows  cool  were   stealing 

on, 

With  many  a  slow  and  feeble  hop 
He  got  himself  away  from  the  top  ; 
He  reached  the  trunk,  and  then  with  a 

bound 
He  landed  safely  on  the  ground, 


And  managed  back  to   the  spring 

creep, 

While  all  his  friends  were  fast  asleep. 
Next  morning,  those  who  were  sitting 

near, 

Saw  that  he  looked  a  little  queer, 
So  they  asked,  hoping  to  have  some  fun, 
Where  he  had  been,  and  what  he  had 

done. 

Now,  though  our  hero  scorned  to  lie, 
He  thought  he  had  a  right  to  be  sly  ; 
For,  said  he,  if  the  fellows  find  me  out, 
I  'd  better  have  been  "  up  the  spout." 
-So  he  told  them  he  'd  been  very  dry, 
And,  to  own  the  truth,  got  rather  high  I 
Then  all  the  frogs  about  the  spring 
Began  at  once  this  song  to  sing  : 
First  high  it  rose,  and  then  it  sunk :  — 
"  A  frog  -  got  -  drunk  -  got  -  drunk  -  got- 

drunk  — 
We  '11-search  -  the-spring  -  for-his-whis- 

key-jug  — 

Ka-chee,  ka-chi,  ka-cho,  ka-chug  !  " 
And  my  story 's  true,  as  you  may  know, 
For  still  the  bull-frogs  sing  just  so  ; 
But  that  Mr.  Bull  was  up  a  tree, 
There 's  nobody  knows  but  himself  and 


THE  HUNCHBACK. 

IF  he  walked  he  could  not  keep  beside 

The  lads  that  were  straight  and  well ; 
And  yet,  poor  boy,  how  hard  he  tried, 

There  's  none  of  us  can  tell. 
To  get  himself  in  trim  for  school 

Was  weary  work,  and  slow  ; 
And  once  his  thoughtless  brother  said, 

"  You  're  never  ready,  Joe  !  " 

He  sat  in  the  sun,  against  the  wall, 

When  the  rest  were  blithe  and  gay  ; 
For  he  could  not  run  and  catch  the 
ball. 

Nor  join  in  the  noisy  play. 
And  first  or  last  he  would  not  share 

In  a  quarrel  or  a  fight  ; 
But  he  was  prompt  enough  to  say, 

"  No,  boys,  it  is  n't  right !  " 

And  when  a  lad  o'er  a  puzzling  "  sum  " 
Perplexed  his  head  in  doubt, 

Poor  little,  patient,  hunchbacked  Joe, 
Could  always  help  him  out. 

And  surely  as  the  time  came  round 
To  read,  define,  and  spell, 


POEMS  FOR   CHILDREN. 


33* 


Poor  little  Joe  was  ready  first, 
And  knew  his  lessons  well. 

And  not  a  child  in  Sunday-school 

Was  half  so  quick  as  he, 
To  tell  who  blessed  the  children  once 

And  took  them  on  his  knee. 
And  if  you  could  but  draw  him  out, 

'T  was  good  to  hear  him  talk 
Of  Him  who  made  the  blind  to  see 

And  caused  the  lame  to  walk. 

When  sick  upon  his  bed  he  lay, 

He  uttered  no  complaint ; 
For  scarce  in  patient  gentleness 

Was  he  behind  a  saint. 
And   when    the   summons   came,   that 
soon 

Or  late  must  come  to  all, 
Poor  little,  happy,  hunchbacked  Joe, 

Was  ready  for  the  call. 


THE  ENVIOUS  WREN. 

ON  the  ground  lived  a  hen, 

In  a  tree  lived  a  wren, 
"Who    picked    up   her  food    here   and 
there  ; 

While  biddy  had  wheat 

And  all  nice  things  to  eat. 
Said  the  wren,  "  I  declare,  't  is  n't  fair  !  " 

"  It  is  really  too  bad  !  " 

She  exclaimed  — she  was  mad  — 
"  To  go  out  when  it  is  raining  this  way  ! 

And  to  earn  what  you  eat, 

Does  n't  make  your  food  sweet, 
In  spite  of  what  some  folks  may  say. 

"  Now  there  is  that  hen," 

Said  this  cross  little  wren, 
"  She  's  fed  till  she  's  fat  as  a  drum ; 

While  I  strive  and  sweat 

For  each  bug  that  I  get, 
And  nobody  gives  me  a  crumb. 

"  I  can't  see  for  my  life 

Why  the  old  farmer's  wife 
Treats  her  so  much  better  than  me  • 

Suppose  on  the  ground 

I  hop  carelessly  round 
For  a  while,  and  just  see  what  I  '11  see." 

Said  this  'cute  little  wren, 
•     "  I  '11  make  friends  with  the  hen, 
And  perhaps  she  will  ask  me  to  stay  ; 


And  then  upon  bread 
Every  day  I  'd  be  fed, 
And  life  would  be  nothing  but  play." 

So  down  flew  the  wren. 

"  Stop  to  tea,"  said  the  hen  ; 
And  soon  biddy's  supper  was  sent; 

But  scarce  stopping  to  taste, 

The  poor  bird  left  in  haste, 
And  this  was  the  reason  she  went : 

When  the  farmer's  kind  dame 

To  the  poultry-yard  came, 
She  said  —  and  the   wren   shook  with 
fright  — 

"  Biddy  's  so  fat  she  '11  do 

For  a  pie  or  a  stew, 
And  I  guess  I  shall  kill  her  to-night." 


THE  HAPPY   LITTLE  WIFE. 

"Now,  Gudhand,  have  you  sold   the 
cow 

You  took  this  morn  to  town  ? 
And  did  you  get  the  silver  groats 

In  your  hand,  paid  safely  down  ? 

"  And  yet  I  hardly  need  to  ask  ; 

You  hardly  need  to  tell ; 
For  I  see  by  the  cheerful  face  you  bring, 

That  you  have  done  right  well." 

"  Well  !  I  did  not  exactly  sell  her, 
Nor  give  her  away,  of  course  ; 

But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did,  good  wife, 
I  swapped  her  for  a  horse." 

"  A   horse  !    Oh,  Gudhand,  you   have 
done 

Just  what  will  please  me  best, 
For  now  we  can  have  a  carriage, 

And  ride  as  well  as  the  rest." 

"  Nay,  not  so  fast,  my  good  dame, 

We  shall  not  want  a  gig  : 
I  had  not  ridden  half  a  mile 

Till  I  swapped  my  horse  for  a  pig." 

"  That 's  just  the  thing,"  she  answered, 
"  I  would  have  done  myself  : 

We  can  have  a  flitch  of  bacon  now 
To  put  upon  the  shelf. 

"  And  when  our  neighbors  come  to  dine 
With  us,  they  '11  have  a  treat ; 


332 


THE  POEMS  OF  PHCEBE   GARY. 


There  is  no  need  that  we  should  ride, 
But  there  is  that  we  should  eat." 

"  Alack  !  alack  !  "  said  Gudhand, 
"  I  fear  you  '11  change  your  note, 

When  I  tell  you  I  have  n't  got  the  pig  — 
I  swapped  him  for  a  goat." 

"  Now,  bless  us  !  "  cried  the  good  wife, 
"  You  manage  things  so  well ; 

What  I  should  ever  do  with  a  pig 
I  'm  sure  I  cannot  tell. 

"  If  I  put  my  bacon  on  the  shelf, 

Or  put  it  in  the  pot, 
The  folks  would  point  at  us  and  say 

'  They  eat  up  all  they  've  got  !  ' 

"  But  a  good  milch  goat,  ah  !  that 's  the 

thing 

I  've  wanted  all  my  life  ; 
And   now  we  '11   have   both  milk   and 

cheese," 
Cried  the  happy  little  wife. 

"  Nay,  not  so  fast/'  said  Gudhand, 
*'  You  make  too  long  a  leap  ; 

When  I  found  I  could  n't  drive  my  goat, 
I  swapped  him  for  a  sheep." 

"  A   sheep,   my  dear  !  you   must  have 
tried 

To  suit  me  all  the  time  ; 
'T  would  plague  me  so  to  have  a  goat, 

Because  the  things  will  climb  ! 

"  But  a  sheep  !  the  wool  will  make  us 
clothes 

To  keep  us  from  the  cold  ; 
Run  out,  my  dear,  this  very  night, 

And  build  for  him  a  fold." 

"  Nay,  wife,  it  is  n't  me  that  cares 

If  he  be  penned  or  loosed  : 
I  do  not  own  the  sheep  at  all, 

I  swapped  him  for  a  goose." 

"  There,  Gudhand,  I  am  so  relieved  ; 

It  almost  made  me  sick 
To  think  that  I  should  have  the  wool 

To  clip,  and  wash,  and  pick  ! 

"  'T  is  cheaper,  too,  to  buy  our  clothes, 
Than  make  them  up  at  home  ; 


And  I  have  n't  got  a  spinning-wheel, 
Nor  got  a  carding-comb. 

"  But  a  goose  !  I  love  the  taste  of  goose, 
When  roasted  nice  and  brown ; 

And  then  we  want  a  feather  bed, 
And  pillows  stuffed  with  down." 

"  Now  stop  a  bit,"  cried  Gudhand, 
"  Your  tongue  runs  like  a  clock  ; 

The  goose  is  neither  here  nor  there, 
I  swapped  him  for  a  cock." 

"  Dear  me,  you  manage  everything 

As  I  would  have  it  done  ; 
We  '11   know  now   when    to   stir    our 
stumps, 

And  rise  before  the  sun. 

"  A  goose  would  be  quite  troublesome 

For  me  to  roast  and  stuff; 
And  then  our  pillows  and  our  beds 

You  know,  are  soft  enough." 

"  Well,  soft  or  hard,"  said  Gudhand, 
"  I  guess  they  '11  have  to  do  ; 

And  that  we  '11  have  to  wake  at  morn, 
Without  the  crowing,  too  ! 

"  For  you  know  I  could  n't  travel 

All  day  with  naught  to  eat ; 
So  I  took  a  shilling  for  my  cock, 

And  bought  myself  some  meat." 

"That  was  the  wisest  thing  of  all," 
Said  the  good  wife,  fond  and  true  ; 

"  You  do  just  after  my  own  heart, 
Whatever  thing  you  do. 

"  We  do  not  want  a  cock  to  crow, 

Nor  want  a  clock  to  strike  ; 
Thank  God  that  we  may  lie  in  bed 

As  long  now  as  we  like  ! " 

And  then  she  took  him  by  the  beard 

That  fell  about  his  throat, 
And    said,   "While  you    are    mine,    * 
want 

Nor  goose,  nor  swine,  nor  goat !  " 

And  so  the  wife  kissed  Gudhand, 
And  Gudhand  kissed  his  wife  ; 

And  they  promised  to  each  other 
To  be  all  in  all  through  life. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Page 
About  the  cottage,  cold  and  white  .  .  .  .217 

A  boy  named  Peter 178 

A  breath,  like  the  wind's  breath,  may  carry  68 

Across  the  German  ocean 220 

A  cunning  and  curious  splendor  •  '.  83 

A  farmer,  who  owned  a  fine  orchard,  one 

day 170 

After  the  cloud  and  the  whirlwind  ....  160 
Again,  in  the  Book  of  Books,  to-day  .  .  .288 
A  half-score  years  have  sped  away  •  .  .  194 
Ah !  "  Barefoot  Boy ! "  you  have  led  me 

back 252 

Ah,  could  I  my  poet  only  draw 94 

Ah,  how  the  eye  on  the  picture  stops  .  .  .  104 
Ah,  she  was  not  an  angel  to  adore  .  .  -137 
Ah  !  there  are  mighty  things  under  the  sun  80 
A  huntsman,  bearing"  his  gun  a-field  .  .  .  325 
Ah !  what  will  become  of  the  lily  ....  250 
Ah  yes,  I  see  the  sunshine  play  ....  138 

Alack,  it  is  a  dismal  night 30 

Alas,  alas !  how  many  sighs 300 

A  little  boy  who,  strange  to  say 322 

A  little  downy  chicken  one  day 320 

All  by  the  sides  of  the  wide  wild  river  .  -  109 

All  in  a  dreary,  April  day 263 

All  in  the  gay  and  golden  weather  ...  40 
All  these  hours  she  sits  and  counts  .  .  .  245 

All  the  time  my  soul  is  calling 152 

All  upon  a  summer  day 165 

Alone  within  my  house  I  sit 118 

Along  the  grassy  lane  one  day 101 

A  man  he  was  who  loved  the  good  .  .  .291 

Among  the  pitfalls  in  our  way 154 

And  why  are  you  pale,  my  Nora  ?  .  .  .  .  8 
And  why  do  you  throw  down  your  hoe  by 

the  way  ? 169 

An  eye  with  the  piercing  eagle's  fire  .  .  .  306 
An  old,  old  house  by  the  side  of  the  sea  .  .116 

An  orphan,  through  the  world 297 

Apart  from  the  woes  that  are  dead  and  gone  70 
A  poor  blind  man  was  traveling  one  day  .  64 
A  shepherd's  child  young  Barbara  grew  .  203 
As  I  sit  and  watch  at  the  window-pane  .  .  167 

As  laborers  set  in  a  vineyard 245 

As  one  that  leadeth  a  blind  man  ....  79 
As  the  still  hours  toward  midnight  wore  .  136 
As  violets,  modest,  tender-eyed  ....  244 
At  noon-time  I  stood  in  the  doorway  to  see  101 
At  the  dead  of  night  by  the  side  of  the  sea  .  68 
At  the  north  end  of  our  village  stand  .  .  7 

Away,  away  in  the  Northland 323 

Away  in  the  dim  and  distant  past  ....  242 

•Away  with  all  life's  memories 157 

Aweary,  wounded  unto  death 157 


A  weaver  sat  one  day  at  his  loom  . 
A  wretched  farce  is  our  life  at  best 


Page 

•  294 
.  263 


Beautiful  stories,  by  tongue  and  pen  .     .     .  221 

Beautiful  symbol  of  a  freer  life 60 

Because  I  have  not  done  the  things  I  know  87 
Behind  the  cottage  the  mill  creek  flowed      .  192 
Be  not  much  troubled  about  many  things    .  87 
Be  with  me,  O  Lord,  when  my  life  hath  in- 
crease       293 

Blessings,  alas  unmerited 281 

Blessings,  blessings  on  the  beds     ;     .     .     .  162 

Boatman,  boatman  !  my  brain  is  wild      .     .  73 

Brightly  for  him  the  future  smiled  ....  235 

Brightly  the  morning  sunshine  glowed    .     .  202 

Brown-faced  sailor,  tell  me  true      ....  126 

Busybody,  busybody 179 

By  that  name  you  will  not  know  her  .     .     .  235 

Care  is  like  a  husbandman 65 

Children,  who  read  my  lay     .     .     .     .     .     .  174 

Close  at  the  window-pane  Barbara  stands    .    55 
Clouds  with  a  little  light  between   ....  156 

Come,  bring  me  wild  pinks  from  the  valleys   136 

291 
155 
175 
123 
324 
257 
104 


Come,  darling,  put  your  frown  aside 
Come  down,  O  Lord,  and  with  us  live  !  .     . 
Come  down  to  us,  help  and  heal  us     ... 
Come,  gather  round  me,  children   .... 

Come  let  us  talk  together 

Come,  little  children,  come  with  me  .  .  . 
Come,  loveliest  season  of  the  year  .... 
Come  make  for  me  a  little  song  .... 
Come  out  from  heaven,  O  Lord,  and  be  my 

guide 158 

Come  thou,  my  heavy  soul,  and  lay  ...  145 
Come  up,  April,  through  the  valley  .  .  .  248 

Comfort  me  with  apples .  253 

Crooked  and" dwarfed  the  tree  must  stay  .  285 
Cunning  little  fairy 250 

Darkness,  blind  darkness  every  way  .  .  .  158 
Darling,  while  the  tender  moon  ....  262 
Dear,  gentle  Faith !  on  the  sheltered  porch  249 
Dear  gracious  Lord,  if  that  thy  pain  .  .  .  148 
Dear  little  children,  where'er  you  be  .  .  .311 
Do  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil  ....  70 
Don't  ever  go  hunting  for  pleasures  .  .  .  182 
Do  we  not  say,  forgive  us,  Lord  ....  283 
Down  and  up,  and  up  and  down  ....  72 
Down  the  peach-tree  slid 66 

Each  fearful  storm  that  o'er  us  rolls  .  .  .  159 
Earth  seems  as  peaceful  and  as  bright  .  •  280 
Earth,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills  .  .  .160 


334 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Egalton's  hills  are  sunny  .... 
Emily  Mayfield  all  the  day  .  .  . 
Even  as  a  child  too  well  she  knew  . 


Page 


238 


Fainter  and  fainter  may  fall  on  my  ear  .  .  264 
Fair  girl,  the  light  of  whose  morning  keeps  243 
Fair  Kirtle,  hastening  to  the  sea  ....  215 
Fair  youth,  too  timid  to  lift  your  eyes  .  .  267 

Faithless,  perverse,  and  blind 292 

False  and  fickle,  or  fair  and  sweet  ....  228 
Fame  guards  the  wreath  we  call  a  crown  .  83 

Flower  of  the  deep  red  zone 104 

For  the  sharp  conflicts  I  have  had  with  sin  139 
Fort  Wagner !  that  is  a  place  for  us  ...  307 
Friends,  let  us  slight  no  pleasant  spring  .  .  76 
From  the  old  Squire's  dwelling,  gloomy  and 

•    grand 189 

From  the  outward  world  about  us  ....  92 
Full  early  in  the  dewy  time  of  year  ...  86 

Get  up,  my  little  handmaid 12 

Go  not  far  in  the  land  of  light!  ......  135 

Good  mother,  what  quaint  legend  are  you 

reading 28 

Good  old  mother  Fairie 171 

Good  Saint  Macarius,  full  of  grace      .    .     .  215 

Gracie  rises  with  a  light 223 

Great  master  of  the  poet's  art ! 306 

Haste,  little  fingers,  haste,  haste  ....  128 
Has  the  spring  come  back,  my  darling  .  .  119 
Have  you  been  in  our  wild  west  country? 

then  116 

Heart-sick,  homeless,  weak,  and  weary  .  .  43 
He  had  drunk  from  founts  of  pleasure  .  .  281 
He  has  gone  at  last :  yet  I  could  not  see  .  233 
He  knew  what  mortals  know  when  tried  .  301 

Helpless  before  the  cross  I  lay 296 

Hemmed  in  by  the  hosts  of  the  Austrians  .  307 
Her  brown  hair  plainly  put  away  ....  249 
Her  casement  like  a  watchful  eye  ....  37 

Her  cup  of  life  with  joy  is  full 270 

Here  is  the  sorrow,  the  sighing  ....  160 
Her  heart  was  light  as  human  heart  can  be  271 
Her  silver  lamp  half-filled  with  oil  .  .  .  .  278 
Her  skies,  of  whom  I  sing,  are  hung  .  .  .  241 
Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low  :  her  face  .  .  85 
Her  voice  was  tender  as  a  lullaby  ....  58 
He  sat  all  alone  in  his  dark  little  room  .  .  76 
He  spoils  his  house  and  throws  his  pains 

away 60 

His  hands  with  earthly  work  are  done  .  .  300 
His  sheep  went  idly  over  the  hills  ...  73 

Honest  little  Peter  Grey 181 

Hope  in  our  hearts  doth  only  stay  ....  144 
Hope  wafts  my  bark,  and  round  my  way  .  269 

How  are  we  living?  .  71 

How  can  you  speak  to  me  so,  Charlie !  .  .  228 
How  dare  I  in  thy  courts  appear  .  .  .  .281 
How  dreary  would  the  meadows  be  .  .  .170 
Hushed  is  the  even-song  of  the  bird  .  .  .  200 


I  am  weary  of  the  working 78 

I  asked  the  angels  in  my  prayer  ....  157 
I  ask  not  wealth,  but  power  to  take  .  .  .  240 
I  do  not  think  the  Providence  unkind  .  .  67 
I  dreamed  I  had  a  plot  of  ground  ....  72 
I  dreamed  I  had  a  plot  of  ground  .  .  .  -135 

If  fancy  do  not  all  deceive 269 

If  he  walked  he  could  not  keep  beside  .  .  330 
If  I  were  a  painter,  I  could  paint  .  .  .98 
If  one  had  never  seen  the  full  completeness  89 
If  something  waits,  and  you  should  now  .  319 


Page 

If  we  should  see  one  sowing  seed  ....  86 
If  when  thy  children,  O  my  friend  ....  292 

If  you  're  told  to  do  a  thing 325 

If  you  Ve  tried  and  have  not  won  ....  318 

I  have  a  heavenly  home 280 

I  have  been  little  used  to  frame  ....  147 
I  have  been  out  to-day  in  field  and  wood  .  254 

I  have  no  moan  to  make 304 

I  have  sinned,  I  have  sinned,  before  thee, 

the  Most  Holy 284 

I  heard  the  gay  spring  coming 80 

I  hold  that  Christian  grace  abounds  ...  78 
I  knew  a  man  —  1  know  him  still  ....  74 

I  know  a  little  damsel 127 

I  know  not  what  the  world  may  be  ...  134 
I  know  that  Edgar 's  kind  and  good  .  .  .214 
I  know  you  are  always  by  my  side  .  .  .  303 
I  '11  tell  you  two  fortunes,  my  fine  little  lad  .  182 
I  love  my  love  so  well,  I  would  ....  271 
I  love  the  deep  quiet  —  all  buried  in  leaves  117 
I  love  the  flowers  that  come  about  with 

spring 107 

I  'm  getting  better,  Miriam,  though  it  tires 

me  yet  to  speak 222 

Impatient  women  as  you  wait 239 

In  a  little  bird's  nest  of  a  house  ....  176 
In  a  patch  of  clearing  scarcely  more  ...  34 
In  asking  how  I  came  to  choose  ....  125 
In  my  lost  childhood  old  folks  said  to  me  .  69 
In  the  dead  of  night  to  the  dead-house  .  .  45 
In  the  pleasant  springtime  weather  .  .  .  129 
In  the  shade  of  the  cloister,  long  ago  .  .  .  289 
In  the  stormy  waters  of  Gallaway  ....  28 
In  the  time  when  the  little  flowers  are  born  208 
In  the  village  church  where  a  child  she  was 

led 198 

In  the  years  that  now  are  dead  and  gone  .  248 
In  thy  time,  and  times  of  mourning  .  .  .152 

Into  the  house  ran  Lettice 3 

In  vain  the  morning  trims  her  brows  .  .  .  136 
In  what  a  kingly  fashion  man  doth  dwell  .  77 

I  said,  if  I  might  go  back  again 233 

I  saw  in  my  dream  a  wonderful- stream  .  .  121 
I  see  him  part  the  careless  throng  ....  271 
I  sit  in  my  sorrow  a-wearyj  alone  ....  53 
Is  it  you,  Jack?  Old  boy,  is  it  really  you  ?  .  16 

I  think  there  are  some  maxims 181 

I  think  true  love  is  never  blind  .  .  .  266 

1  thought  to  find  some  healing  clime  .  .  .  234 
I  took  a  little  good  seed  in  my  hand  .  .  .  283 
It  was  a  sandy  l^el  wherein  stood  .  .  .110 
It  was  not  day,  and  was  not  night  ...  94 
I  Ve  got  such  a  cold,  I  cannot  sing  .  .  .  329 
I  walked  from  our  wild  north  country  once  9 

I  was  out  in  the  country 317 

I  will  call  her  when  she  comes  to  me  .  .no 

Jenny  Brown  has  as  pretty  a  house  of  her 

own 316 

Jenny  Dunleath  coming  back  to  the  town  .  22 
Johnny  Right,  his  hand  was  brown  .  .  33 

Last  night,  when  the  sweet  young  moon 

shone  clear 214 

Laugh  out,  O  stream,  from  your  bed  of 

green 261 

Lest  the  great  glory  from  on  high  ....  156 

Lest  to  evil  ways  I  run 149 

Life  grows  better  every  day 239 

Life's  sadly  solemn  mystery 159 

Lift  up  the  years !  lift  up  the  years      ...     52 

Like  a  child  that  is  lost 150 

Like  to  that  little  homely  flower      .     .    .     .130 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


335 


Page 

Little  children,  you  must  seek 172 

Little  Daisy  smiling  wakes 255 

Loaded  with  gallant  soldiers 305 

Lord,  with  what  body  do  they  come  .  .  .  287 
"  Love  thee  ? "  Thou  canst  not  ask  of  me  .  269 

Master,  I  do  not  ask  that  thou 159 

Men  silenced  on  his  faithful  lips  ....  309 
Morn  on  the  mountains !  streaks  of  roseate 

light 105 

Most  favored  lady  in  the  land 239 

Mother  's  quite  distracted 318 

Mr.  Wren  and  his  dear  began  early  one 

year 205 

My  Carmia,  my  life,  my  saint 128 

My  God,  I  feel  thy  wondrous  might  .  .  .  154 

My  head  is  sick  and  my  heart  is  faint  .  .  267 

My  heart  thou  makest  void,  and  full  .  .  .  133 

My  homely  flower  that  blooms  along  .  .  .  106 

My  lad  who  sits  at  breakfast 177 

My  little  birds,  with  backs  as  brown  .  .  .  108 

My  little  love  hath  made 124 

My  Rose,  so  red  and  round 106 

My  sorrowing  friend,  arise  and  go  ...  131 

"  My  sweetest  Dorothy,"  said  John  .  .  .  208 
My  thoughts,  I  fear,  run  less  to  right  than 

wrong 90 

Nav,  darling,  darling,  do  not  frown  .  .  .  242 
Ne]er  lover  spake  in  tenderer  words  .  .  .  260 

Neighbored  by  a  maple  wood 26 

No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from  other 

lands 95 

Nor  far  nor  near  grew  shrub  nor  tree  .  .113 
No  tears  for  him  I  his  light  was  not  your 

light 95 

Not  what  we  think  but  what  we  do  ...  73 
Now  give  me  your  burden,  if  burden  you 

bear .  .  .  .  .  48 

Now,  good  wife,  bring  your  precious  hoard  .  219 
Now,  Gudhand,  have  you  sold  the  cow  .  .331 
No  whit  is  gained,  do  you  say  to  me  ...  31 
Now  in  the  waning  autumn  days  ....  196 
Now  tell  me  all  my  fate;  Jennie  ....  129 
Now  the  hickory,  with  its  hum 17 

O  brothers  and  sisters,  growing  old     .     .     .  232 

O  cousin  Kit  MacDpnald 37 

O  day  to  sweet  religious  thought  ....  153 
O  doubly-bowed  and  bruised  reed  ....  302 
O'er  the  miller's  cottage  the  seasons  glide  .  199 

O  fickle  and  uncertain  March 253 

O  friends,  we  are  drawing  nearer  home  .     .  131 

Often  I  sit  and  spend  my  hour 93 

Of  the  precious  years  of  my  life,  to-day  .  .  289 
Of  what  are  you  dreaming,  my  pretty  maid  249 
Oh,  for  a  mind  more  clear  to  see  ....  298 

Oh,  good  painter,  tell  me  true 99 

Oh,  if  this  living  soul,  that  many  a  time  .     .  293 

Oh  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true 6 

Oh.  the  tender  joy  of  those  autumn  hours  .  197 
Oh  to  be  back  in  the  cool  summer  shadow  .  268 

Oh  what  a  day  it  was  to  us 24 

Oh  what  is  thy  will  toward  us  mortals     .     .    62 

O  ladies,  softly  fair 112 

O  Land,  of  every  land  the  best 242 

Old  Ajax  was  a  faithful  dog 328 

Old  Death  proclaims  a  holocaust  ....  50 
Old  pictures,  faded  long,  to-night  .  .  .  .251 
O  Loving  One,  O  Bounteous  One  ....  282 

O  memory,  be  sweet  to  me 108 

O  men,  with  wounded  hearts 298 

O  mourner,  mourn  not  vanished  light      .    .  131 


Page 

O  my  friend,  O  my  dearly  beloved  ....  273 
Once,  a  long  time  ago,  so  good  stories  begin  212 

Once  a  trap  was  baited 328 

Once,  being  charmed  by  thy  smile  ....  272 

Once  in  a  rough,  wild  country 183 

Once  —  in  the  ages  that  have  passed  away  .  295 
Once  more,  despite  the  noise  of  wars  .  .  94 
Once  when  morn  was  flowing  in  .  .  .  .178 
Once,  when  my  youth  was  in  its  flower  .  .  263 
Once  when  the  messenger  that  stays  ...  59 
One  autumn-time  I  went  into  the  woods  .  60 

One  day,  a  poor  peddler 173 

One  moment,  to  strictly  run  out  by  the 

sands 47 

One  on  another  against  the  wall  ....  109 
"  One  story  more,"  the  whole  world  cried  .  305 

One  summer  night 74 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 278 

Only  a  newsboy,  under  the  light     ....  247 

On  the  ground  lived  a  hen 331 

O  river,  why  lie  with  your  beautiful  face  .  70 
O  Rosamond, thou  fair  and  good  ....  276 
O  summer !  my  beautiful,  beautiful  summer  119 

O  sweet  and  charitable  friend 259 

O  Thou,  who  all  my  life  hast  crowned  .  .  151 
O  Thou,  who  dost  the  sinner  meet  .  .  .  148 
O  time  by  holy  prophets  long  foretold  .  .  284 
Our  days  are  few  and  full  of  strife  ....  151 
Our  generals  sat  in  their  tent  one  night  .  .  227 
Our  God  is  love,  and  that  which  we  miscall  151 
Our  life  is  like  a  march  where  some  .  .  .  241 
Our  mightiest  in  our  midst  is  slain  .  .  .  161 
Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls  .  256 
Our  sun  has  gone  down  at  the  noonday  .  .  404 
Our  unwise  purposes  are  wisely  crossed  .  69 
Out  of  the  earthly  years  we  live  .  .  .  .153 
Out  of  the  heavens  come  down  to  me  .  .  152 
Out  of  the  wild  and  weary  night  ....  137 
O  winds !  ye  are  too  rough,  too  rough!  .  .  130 
O  years,  gone  down  into  the  past  ....  286 

Peace!  for  my  brain  is  on  the  rack  ...  38 
Phantoms  come  and  crowd  me  thick  ...  85 
Pleasure  and  pain  walk  hand  in  hand  .  .  156 
Poet,  whose  lays  our  memory  still  .  .  .  309 
Poor  little  moth!  thy  summer  sports  were 

done      ' 59 

Questioning,  blind,  unsatisfied 290 

Red  in  the  east  the  morning  broke  .  .  .  61 
Round  and  round  the  wheel  doth  run  .  .  81 

Says  John  to  his  mother,  "  Look  here  "  .  167 
Seek  not  to  walk  by  borrowed  light  ...  70 
Seven  great  windows  looking  seaward  .  .  13 
She  was  so  good,  we  thought  before  she  died  243 

Shine  down,  little  head,  so  fair 128 

Shorter  and  shorter  now  the  twilight  clips  .  114 
Show  you  her  picture ?  here  it  lies!  .  .  .  132 
Since :  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day  .  .234 
Since  thou  wouldst  have  me  show  .  .  .125 
Sing  me  a  song,  my  nightingale  .  .  .  .125 
Sinner,  careless,  proud,  and  cold  ....  296 

Sitting  by  my  fire  alone 102 

So  I'm  "crazy"  in  loving  a  man  of  three- 
score       227 

Solitude  —  Life  is  inviolate  solitude  ...  88 
Some  comfort  when  all  else  is  night  .  .  .  103 

Sometimes  for  days 67 

Sometimes  the  softness  of  the  embracing  air  82 
Sometimes  when  hopes  have  vanished,  one 

and  all 88 


336 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 

Sometimes,  when  rude,  cold  shadows  run  .  96 
So  she  goes  sometimes  past  Dovecote  Mill  195 
Stay  yet  a  little  longer  in  the  sky  ....  96 
Steer  hither,  rough  old  mariner  .  .  .  .  18 
Still  alway  groweth  in  me  the  great  wonder  133 
Still  from  the  unsatisfying  guest  .  .  .  .  61 
Stop,  traveler,  just  a  moment  at  my  gate  .  122 
Strange,  strange  for  thee  and  me  ....  246 

Sunset !  a  hush  is  on  the  air 102 

Suppose,  my  little  lady 323 

Suppose  your  hand  with  power  supplied  .  61 
Swiftly  onward  the  seasons  flew  .  .  .  .190 
Swiftly  the  season  sped  away 193 

Tell  me,  Effie,  while  you  are  sitting  .  .  .  320 

Tell  you  a  story,  do  you  say? 14 

The  best  man  should  never  pass  by  ...  82 
The  black  walnut-logs  in  the  chimney  .  .  9 
The  boughs  they  blow  across  the  pane  .  .135 
The  clouds  all  round  the  sky  are  black  .  .  60 
The  crocus  rose  from  her  snowy  bed  .  .  .  258 
The  day,  with  a  cold,  dead  color  ....  5 
The  farm-lad  quarried  from  the  mow  .  .  109 
The  glance  that  doth  thy  neighbor  doubt  .  61 
The  good  dame  looked  from  her  cottage  .  210 
The  grass  lies  flat  beneath  the  wind  .  .  .  230 

The  heart  is  not  satisfied 292 

The  hills  are  bright  with  maples  yet  ...  103 
The  house  lay  snug  as  a  robin's  nest  .  .  41 
The  Lady  Marjory  lay  on  her  bed  ....  224 
The  leaves  are  fading  and  falling  ....  164 

The  long  day  is  closing 154 

The  long  grass  burned  brown 322 

The  maiden  has  listened  to  loving  words  .  270 
The  moon's  gray  tent  is  up  :  another  hour  .  80 
The  morn  is  hanging  here  fire-fringed  veil  .  56 
The  path  of  duty  I  clearly  trace  ....  77 

The  pig  and  the  hen  .  .  . 177 

There  are  eyes  that  look  through  us  ...  266 
There  has  something  gone  wrong  .  .  .  .329 

There  is  hovering  about  me 138 

There  is  comfort  in  the  world 245 

There  is  work  good  man,  for  you  to-day      .     31 
There  was  a  good  and  reverend  man  ...     77 
There  was  an  old  woman      ......   172 

There  were  seven  fishers,  with  nets  in  their 

hands 149 

The  smoke  of  the  Indian  summer  ....  43 

The  solemn  word  had  spread 150 

The  stone  upon  the  wayside  seed  that  fell  .  75 

The  story  books  have  told  you 175 

The  stream  of  life  is  going  dry  .  .  .  .  .  154 
The  sun  of  a  sweet  summer  morning  .  .  .  236 
The  sun,  who  smiles  wherever  he  goes  .  .  268 
The  time  has  come,  as  I  knew  it  must  .  .  234 
The  truth  lies  round  about  us,  all  .  .  .  .  79 
The  waiting-women  wait  at  her  feet  ...  36 
The  waves,  they  are  wildly  heaving  .  .  .138 
The  west  shines  out  through  the  lines  of 

jet 128 

The  wild  and  windy  March  once  more  .  .  in 
The  wind  blows  where  it  listeth  ....  66 
The  wind  is  blowing  cold  from  the  west .  .  67 
The  winter  goes  and  the  summer  comes  .113 
The  year  has  lost  its  leaves  again  ....  146 
They  set  me  up,  and  bade  me  stand  ...  71 
Things  that  I  have  to  hold  and  keep,  ah! 

there 297 

Think  on  him,  Lord  !  we  ask  thy  aid  .  .  .  283 
This  extent  hath  freedom's  ground  ...  78 
This  happy  day,  whose  risen  sun  ....  287 
Though  Nature's  lonesome,  leafless  bowers  253 
Though  never  shown  by  word  or  deed  .  .71 


Page 

Though  sin  hath  marked  thy  brother's  brow  147 
Though  we  were  parted,  or  though  he  had 

died 266 

Thou  givest,  Lord,  to  Nature  law  ....  156 
Thou,  under  Satan's  fierce  control  .  .  .  145 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket 168 

Thy  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  thee  .  .  .  151 
Till  I  learned  to  love  thy  name  ....  155 

Time  makes  us  eagle-eyed 83 

'T  is  all  right,  as  I  knew  it  would  be  by  and 

by 229 

'T  is  a  sad  truth,  yet  't  is  a  truth  ....  238 
To  begin,  in  things  quite  simple  .  .  .  .179 

To  Him  who  is  the  Life  of  life 155 

Toiling  early,  and  toiling  late 240 

Too  meek  by  half  was  he  who  came  .  .  .  261 

Too  much  or  joy  is  sorrowful 68 

True  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeming  ...  84 
Trying,  trying  —  always  trying  ....  66 
Turning  some  papers  carelessly  ....  260 
'Twas  a  lonesome  couch  we  came  to  spread  303 
'T  was  a  night  to  make  the  bravest  .  .  .213 
'T  was  in  the  middle  of  summer  .  .  .  .  10 
'Twas  the  fisher's  wife  at  her  neighbor's 

door 327 

Two  careless,  happy  children 252 

Two  clouds  in  the  early  morning  ....  54 
Two  thirsty  travelers  chanced  one  day  to 

meet 69 

Two  travelers,  meeting  by  the  way  ...  63 
Two  young  men,  when  I  was  poor  ....  75 

Unpraised  but  of  my  simple  rhymes  .  .  .153 
Up  ere  the  throstle  is  out  of  the  thorn  .  .  40 

Up  Gregory  !  the  cloudy  east 162 

Upon  her  cheek  such  color  glows  ....  237 

Very  simple  are  my  pleasures 64 

Vile,  and  deformed  by  sin  I  stand       .     .     .  282 

Wake,  Dillie,  my  darling,  and  kiss  me    .     .  144 
Watch  her  kindly,  stars     .......  270 

We  always  called  her  "  poor  Margaret  "  .  224 
We  are  face  to  face  and  between  us  here  .  272 
We  are  proclaimed  even  against  our  wills  .  63 
We  are  the  mariners,  and  God  the  sea  .  .  82 

We  contradictory  creatures 65 

We  heard  his  hammer  all  day  long  .  .  .  162 
Well,  you  have  seen  it  —  a  tempting  spot!  .  190 
We're  married,  they  say,  and  you  think 

you  have  won  me 121 

We  scarce  could  doubt  our  Father's  power  .  257 

We  stood,  my  soul  and  I 264 

We  used  to  think  it  was  so  queer  ....  5 
What  comfort,  when  with  clouds  of  woe  .  138 
What  is  it  that  doth  spoil  the  fair  adorning  85 
What  is  my  little  sweetheart  like,  d'  you 

say  ? 124 

What  is  time,  O  glorious  Giver       .     .     .     .151 

What  '11  you  have,  John  ? 180 

What  shall  I  do  when  I  stand  in  my  place  .  147 
When  her  mind  was  sore  bewildered  .  .  •  294 
When  I  see  the  long  wild  briers  .  .  .  .  in 
When  I  think  of  the  weary  nights  and 

days  .     .     • 8 

When  I  was  young  —  it  seems  as  though  .  56 
When  March  has  gone  with  his  cruel  wind  326 
When  skies  are  growing  warm  and  bright  .  1x7 
When  spring-time  prospers  in  the  grass  .  .  65 
When  steps  are  hurrying  homeward  .  .  .  134 
When  the  birds  were  mating  and  build- 
ing   217 

When  the  cares  of  day  are  ended   ....  184 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


337 


Page 

When  the  mildew's  blight  we  see-.  .  .  .  160 
When  the  morning  first  uncloses  ....  92 
When  the  way  we  should  tread  runs  evenly 

on 243 

When  the  world  no  solace  gives  ....  298 
When  you  would  have  sweet  flowers  to 

smell  and  hold 237 

While  I  had  mine  eyes,  I  feared  ....  303 
While  shines  the  sun,  the  storm  even  then  .  84 
Why  are  we  so  impatient  of  delay  .  .  .  .291 
Why  do  you  come  to  my  apple-tree  .  .  .  180 
Why  should  our  spirits  be  opprest  .  .  .  161 

Why  weep  ye  for  the  falling 148 

Will  the  mocking  daylight  never  be  done  .  246 

22 


Page 
With   cobwebs   and   dust  on   the    window 

spread 191 

With  eyes  to  her  sewing-work  dropped  down  49 
With  her  white  face  full  of  agony  ....  239 
Woodland,  green  and  gay  with  dew  .  .  .114 

Ye  winds,  that  talk  among  the  pines  .  .232 
You  have  sent  me  from  her  tomb  ....  301 
You  know  th'  forks  of  th'  road,  and  th' 

brown  mill? 114 

You  never  said  a  word  to  me 263 

You  restless,  curious  little  Jo 321 

You  think  I  do  not  love  you  !  why  ...  62 
You 've  read  of  a  spider,  I  suppose  .  .  .179 


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